Mighty Hunter in the 21st Century

This Blog Now Redirects to My New Blog

2011-09-16T08:44:00.001-07:00

See you there.

Bye Bye, Ya'll

2011-07-26T15:43:00.000-07:00

I'm starting over. I might bring the posts from this place over to the other place (because there is going to be another place, and I'll leave it as an exercise to the reader to find the new place, even if it's not going to be a hard exercise), or I might not. For now, I'll keep this up until I figure out what I want to do with it. If anything.

Yeah.

So.

Yeah.

Edited to add: You can find me here, if you like.

The Madness of Crowds; or, Yet Another Post Inspired By Current Events

2011-05-02T08:30:00.000-07:00

I watched the news last night...

Wait. You know why, right? Anyway.

I watched the news last night with a sense that I wasn't feeling what I was supposed to be feeling.

I wrote that last sentence and then tried to write a follow-up about five times before coming up with this bit of nothing.

I can't just categorize my emotions around this in simple terms: jubilation, release, contemplation, cynicism, or what-have-you. I can't even say that I felt all of the above emotions after hearing the President's address. (I cracked wise about it on Twitter, of course, but you'd be forgiven if you missed it through the rest of the 140-character punditry.) I suppose I felt surprised when Lovely Girlfriend came back from a brief phone conversation with her mother to shout, "Turn on the TV! The US Government has assassinated Osama bin Laden." (Which I, of course, misheard and instantly panicked about.) I guess I was somewhat relieved to learn the few specifics that the President decided to impart about the events surrounding bin Laden's killing.

And then that crowd started gathering outside The White House. And MSNBC decided to show more and more of that live feed as the talking heads continued to analyze. And then the various crowds at Ground Zero and elsewhere became the news.

My doubt about my feelings stems from these moments.

I understand intellectually about how these crowds most likely gathered as a cathartic action. Many, many people have strong emotions surrounding the day that would become Patriot Day. A few of those people might have even lost someone because of the events on that day. Those people probably required and craved some sort of release, and perhaps they finally got that release with this news.

I kept looking at the broadcast of the crowds in front of The White House with a little concern, though. I caught myself muttering under my breath, "I don't like that. That's not good." Perhaps I've conditioned myself to distrust large groups of shouting flag-wavers. But, after a while, I started to not like what I was seeing of the crowds that kept being broadcast at me. It just seemed off.

Not that I have a much of a problem with a US special forces military group assassinating a major terrorist organization's former leader; my feelings around death and killing criminals can be best summed up as, "Go ahead, if that's the only realistic way to take care of the situation." (Lovely Girlfriend and I sometimes have spirited discussions on this point; I think my view makes me a bad liberal, but it's my view and I own it.) But, well...

Look. If this news makes you want to celebrate in the streets or whatever, that's your thing. I guess it isn't mine. I'm not-so-secretly glad that this particular terrorist is dead. Perhaps it would have been better if he had been taken alive, tried for war crimes, and punished under due process of international law. That didn't happen, and I'd be lying if I said that I'm not too sad about it, regardless. However, forced analogies to the celebrating crowds in the 1940s for the dropping of Little Boy and Fat Man on Japan and the death of Adolf Hitler don't make me feel any better about group mentality. Even if it's just a spontaneous gathering of celebratory and relieved people, I look at this:

And I worry.

Untitled.

2011-04-25T06:53:00.000-07:00

I'm a terrible diarist.

Not because I don't like to talk about stuff that I do (those who follow me on The Twitter know this isn't true), or don't think that others might not be interested (see above parenthetical), and even am a terrible writer (perhaps not GREAT, but certainly not TERRIBLE). It's something subtler and perhaps (if you'll allow me to overstate dramatically) MORE INSIDIOUS.

I don't give myself the time.

As I've probably mentioned before, I started this blog a little over two years ago for a specific, and perhaps not particularly awesome, reason. I kept at it even when the reasons for doing weren't really all that important anymore. I writing hasn't suffered, maybe, but my blogging has.

And, from what little I've seen and what little I know about this blogging thing, the most popular or most read bloggers do it on at least a regular basis, if not a daily one.

I've been prone to taking long hiatuses here. If all I cared about was readership, I'd never do that.

I don't have what I consider to be an interesting job: I don't write scripts for television shows, or work with needy children or families.

I don't have a young child in my life, and so can't fall back on that child's amusing antics and anecdotes.

I'm not sure what this entry is. It sounds like "good-bye," but doesn't feel like it.

I guess we'll see.

Edited to add:

A comment by a good friend of mine via facebook:

In my opinion, a blog is not so much a commitment as a means to communicate. If you don't have anything to communicate, why bother wasting the time?
Of course, there are many people who feel a "responsibility," or a need to make an entry every 40 minutes or per day, but isn't that just an example of keeping up with the Joneses? Frankly, if you yourself wouldn't read the stuff you're writing (if you have nothing to say), would you want to subject others to it? In my humble opinion, the idea that (my) blog is the centerpiece of other peoples' day should be avoided and the understanding that the interested parties will just read (my) stuff when it comes down the pike and like it or not like it is much more healthy and less stressful. Maybe I should be less opinionated.

A Post About Writing Posts in Response to a Writing Prompt. Yeah, My Head Just Exploded, Too, Ow.

2011-03-09T22:15:00.000-08:00

The IndieInk Writing Challenge continues apace. Last week I was challenged by none other than the Founder of IndieInk: Anastacia Campbell of Jurgen Nation. Her prompt follows, and it's a doozy:

There's a quote I'll never forget (I forget the actual quote, so, sorry) [Ed: Wait, what?] that, to be a great writer, you have to be willing to write badly. Your challenge: pick your favorite piece of writing that you've ever written and rewrite it badly. "Badly" can mean whatever you think is bad writing - you can model it on a blogger/writer whose writing you hate or just based on what you think is "bad." Your choice. Publish your best piece first and then underneath publish the badly rewritten piece. How hard is it to publish something you don't like? Was this difficult, and if so, how?

Before I get too deeply into this, I'll mention that I find this week's challenge delightfully meta. I like blogging about blogging, writing, and the writing and creative process (which I think I should do more of anyway), and would probably blog about blogging about those things. I think I enjoy this the most because I don't consider myself to be a big-wig in writing or blogging circles, and so I give myself an excuse to, okay, openly mock "the blogging process." Why I use the very medium that I profess to not take very seriously to mock those that do, all the while employing similar self-promotion tactics and writing style, is an exercise that I'll leave to the reader.

That said, this challenge makes me a bit uncomfortable, since I have to decide which of my pieces is "good" and then rewrite it "badly." Truth is, I'm never really all that happy with a lot of the thing that I write. I often rewrite on the fly, deleting and retyping and re-deleting and re-retyping over and over again. Those super short pieces that I sometimes write? They often take for ever to just get down.

That was probably the case with this blog post from about a year ago:

I learned how to fall down last night.

Sensei told us that this was an important skill to learn because we would be falling down a lot in our karate class. And quickly added that we'd be falling down a lot in life as well, so we might as well learn how to fall down "properly" so as not to hurt ourselves.

So we learned how to fall down.

Forward rolls. Left knee down on the mat, right knee knee pointing at the opposite wall. Make a "net" out of both hands. Roll forward, favoring the side with the knee on the mat. Roll across your shoulder and back. Ideally, land on your feet and stand up. Turn around and repeat, switching left and right knees.

I've been falling down a lot recently, in varied and, at times, spectacular ways. The problem isn't the falling down, really. That's necessary, and often times important. The problem isn't even getting back up; that will happen when it's supposed to and when you're ready for it (even if you don't know you're ready for it.) The problem is not knowing how to fall down correctly.

Backward rolls. Squat down, arms protecting your sides and head. Roll onto your back, kicking your feet together and then to one side of your body. Roll across your back and shoulder. Ideally, land on your feet and stand up. Turn around and repeat.

Yes, I'm talking a bit about denial, here. I'm also talking a bit about anger, and a bit about depression, and a bit about other states of mind that prove our mettle as human beings if we handle them in a mindful way. I've felt all of these things. Am still feeling them. Will continue to feel them about all sorts of events and people. Again, that's not the problem. The problem is not dealing with these emotions in a healthy way. That doesn't invalidate or judge those feelings, but also doesn't wallow and inflate them. It's a delicate operation, falling down properly.

Safely getting down. From a standing position, sweep your right leg behind you. Bend your left leg slightly, and allow your weight to carry you to the ground. Land on the leg that's behind you, and balance with your right arm. Stand and repeat, switching left and right legs.

If we don't fall down properly, we hurt ourselves in terrible ways. We shatter and break and take much longer than we should to heal. It still hurts to fall down, even when you know how. But you get back up more quickly, mindfully, ready.

Turn around and repeat.

Thankfully, as I mentioned further up the page, I don't write in drafts so I don't actually have a first attempt at this piece. If I did... would it look like this?

I had my first ever karate class last night. It was me, another really unfit-looking person, and about three or four other people. I and the other unfit guy were the only ones not wearing some sort of gi or workout-specific clothes. I felt really out of place.

After warm-ups, we spent the first half of class learning how to fall down. The instructor joked that we'd be spending most of the class time falling anyway, so we should learn how to do it correctly. I played along and managed a chuckle or two.

We learned a bunch of exercises designed to teach us how to fall down correctly: forward shoulder rolls, backward shoulder rolls, falling from a squat or standing position, stuff like that. It was really repetitive, and my mind got to wandering about how I've been fucking up a lot in my personal life lately and how I wish there had been some sort of exercise to practice so that I didn't fail at that shit quite as spectacularly as I had. I guess there really isn't a class to learn how to "fall down" gracefully, and then get back up ready to fight. You just have to learn that shit on your own.

Yeah, that was really boring. But not hard. Writing badly is easy. I banged out that "version" of the post above in about 15 minutes. But I had to stop thinking about writing to do it. I'd rather take more time and rewrite as I go than just spew my thoughts out and be done in ten minutes or less.

Memories are Tricky. I Think I Got Most of These Right.

2011-02-24T06:50:00.000-08:00

Week 2 of the IndieInk Writing Challenge officially begins for me today. This time, the editors get to play with a whole mess of writers from across the interweb. Makes for a more interesting challenge environment, providing more writers with more ideas and more excellent writing to comb through and admire. One of those writers this time is Pet Cobra, and he sought fit to challenge me with the following prompt: "Write about a late night experience." Two sprung to mind pretty quickly. Perhaps against my better judgement, I went with this one.

The old bath towel she held against her head wound had started to soak through a bit.

"She didn't want to be alone," her neighbor confessed, perhaps a little too sheepishly.

I nodded with what I hoped conveyed understanding and not frantic nervousness. "Are you alright?" I asked her, sitting down on the arm of the living room chair. I wanted to touch her, to make her whole. I still felt the new love that couples who've only been together for a short while often feel. A love that would absolutely heal her gash without the six or so stitches that would surely come soon.

She nodded, looking up at me with eyes that seemed scared and grateful and embarrassed and perhaps many more emotions. "I was making soup and I got light headed and I must have fallen over..." We talked together, huddled close in a stranger's living room, one of us comforting the other. It was probably never clear to the strangers who was comforting whom.

EMTs eventually arrived at our annexed base of operations. They asked a series of serious-sounding questions, and we answered them. Each answer that she provided seemed to focus her and give her more strength.

It looked like bravery to me.

I told her so I drove her to the hospital.

She smiled, towel pressed to her head.

Writing Challenge from IndieInk, Week One: The One That Got Away

2011-02-15T21:40:00.000-08:00

The following short-story/vignette/fragment comes in response to a writing challenge issued by one of my fellow editors at IndieInk. Once a week, we plan to prompt, and potentially stump, one of our other editors with ideas for blog posts. This week, mine was: "The one that got away. Write from his or her perspective, fiction or non."

Gee, mystery editor, thanks a bunch.

At any rate, I like to think I rose to the challenge. Have a look-see.

He's not who he once was. That's certain.

He used to laugh more. He used to live more.

He used to love more. I think he used to love me more.

It's hard to tell sometimes. He rarely speaks these days. Instead, he sits at home in the dark, listening to old records with the sound turned to just over a whisper, eyes half-closed, lips forming words without sounding them, silently speaking a damning manifesto listing any and all perceived wrongs. Damning the world. Damning himself.

The factory shut its doors eight months ago. Shut him out. He wasn't the only one, of course, but that hardly matters. They rejected him, his hard work, his obvious dedication. He can't even talk about it without spitting on the ground afterward. "Business decision, my ass," he grumbles, his mutter recalling the first clatter of stones before an avalanche of anger and frustration and spewing vitriol.

He's started drinking. At first, he just drank his usual beer, just a little more often. Then bourbon with a mixer. Now it's whiskey, sometimes chased with that beer, sometimes straight from the bottle. He falls asleep in his chair, the empty bottle eventually slipping from his grasp and spilling the rest of the alcohol onto the carpet.

This is not the man I fell in love with. The man who comforted me when I needed it. The man who helped raise our children, made them laugh, hugged them tight, kissed their tears away. That man left when the factory closed, and left this one in his place.

I don't want this brutish man with his rages and stupors and sorrowful retellings of glorious past deeds. I want the man that I fell in love with.

Tonight, I pack the kids into the wagon and go looking for that man. I hope I find him. I miss him.

Update: It seems that the inestimable Schmutzie has featured this here post on Five Star Friday this week. I'm honored.

Malaise. Ennui. And Other French Words Denoting Lack of Inspiration.

2011-02-09T10:22:00.000-08:00

I started this blog a few years ago with a pretty specific purpose. And it served its purpose well: as a clearing house for ideas and self-destructive thoughts surrounding my then-recent breakup with my now ex-girlfriend. It briefly morphed into a general place to both showcase my then-budding writing ability and an online diary to showcase my oh-so-interesting life (as well as my thoughts thereupon) which seems to have lead to an entry showing off my ability to use compound adjectives correctly. Other than that, and a few once-a-month flashes, this blog has sort of fallen by the wayside as I've gotten busy with real-life stuff.

So sad.

I'm not really giving up on this yet, but I think I need a new direction.

So...

I have a proposition for my few remaining readers: where should we go now? Short stories and pretentious poetry? News and commentary? Geekiness and commentary? A virtual representation of an old man sitting in a rocking chair on his porch, glass of lemonade in hand, old bloodhound by his feet, shouting at passers-by, "GET OFF MY LAWN?" Weekly solicitations for writing prompts, where nothing is turned down?

Hit me.

I'm Freaking Out

2011-02-08T11:08:00.000-08:00

I shouldn't be freaking out. I should be focusing on my work, and doing a good job, and making sure I make a good impression, and continuing to ask questions, and working through the fear to get to the other side.

I don't want to freak out. I want to stay calm, and carry on, and slow my roll, and back my shit up, and recognize, and accentuate the positive.

I hate it when I freak out. I make mountains out of molehills, and call myself nasty names, and let self-doubt win, and metaphorically beat myself up, and allow my thoughts to cloud up like a typical Seattle day in February.

The reasons for my freak-out matter, and yet don't matter. I can't control others, only myself. I can't predict the future, only try to better myself and others so that a better future is possible. I can't make things happen by myself, only work to make a better thing possible and hope that others share the same dream.

I...

I'm not freaking out anymore.

Thoughts on Seattle's Winter Slusherland

2011-01-12T09:35:00.000-08:00

While The Emerald City's "the rain will wash away the snow" attitude is fundamentally sound most of the time, we who live here should take some time to realize that people walking down your unshoveled sidewalk can still slip on that slushy mess in front of your building.
Public Transit Users take note: Seattle, like Rome, is built on a series of hills. Though the loggers of the 19th century did a decent job of grading those hills from 60° to 45°, our buses still struggle when those hills are slushy and icy. Don't expect to get to work on time.
Another one for Seattle's Public Transit Users: Further, don't be surprised to learn that some buses don't run on their regular routes, or probably don't run at all. Metro can't make you check their website, or listen to the radio, or watch the morning news, so that you know if Seattle's public transportation is running on a "snow event" schedule. They have enough to worry about. Do a little research before standing at your strangely deserted bus-stop waiting for a bus that will never, ever come. (Unrelated: the person who coined the phrase "snow event" needs a good flogging.)
Public Transit Operators: For God's sake, LEARN THE SNOW ROUTE THAT YOU'RE DRIVING. Your riders understand that you probably drive on this different route once or twice per winter, but Metro posts the maps and schedules on their website for passengers; take some time to check it, too.
I don't believe that warm and cold air, atmospheric pressure, and precipitation care much for, or even know about, the concepts of "fairness" and "justice." Grousing about how unfair today's weather is makes people wonder about your frame of mind and sanity.
Dressing appropriately for the weather, especially on your feet, might go a long way towards addressing your concerns about the fairness of the weather. Here's a quick and decidedly incomplete list of footwear that, on mornings like today, should stay in the closet or go in your bag so you can change into them later:

Wool socks and sandals
Thigh-high boots with kitten heels
Galoshes (this might seem counter-intuitive, but go reread item one above and you'll get it)
Ballet flats
Sneakers
Hiking boots that let you sweat through them (this last one is for me; stupid wet socks)

Musical Interlude: Moderately Obscure Christmas Song Edition

2010-12-24T07:52:00.000-08:00

This is, by far, my favorite song of the season:

Though not all that obscure, it's another one of my favorites:

You can almost smell the bourbon on Deano's breath as he sings this:

What are some of your favorite songs of the season that don't get played nearly enough for your taste?

Friday Fuck-Around: Dream Jeopardy Categories

2010-12-17T12:47:00.000-08:00

Lovely Girlfriend and I were watching Jeopardy last night, because we are clearly 98-years-old. Either that, or we like shouting answers to moderately difficult trivia questions at our television IN THE FORM OF A QUESTION. At any rate, after Alex had introduced that night's exceedingly bright contestants, I paused live TV (ain't the future grand?), and turned to Lovely Girlfriend, asking, "Name your dream Jeopardy categories." Though she did name all six, I only remember three distinctly: Post-Modern Literature, Second- and Third-Wave Feminism, and Lady Gaga.

I never volunteered my dream categories, because I was having a hard time thinking of them. But, see, on the way to lunch today, these categories came to me as if from a bolt of lightening. Here they are:

Norse Mythology
The Seattle Seahawks
The Orchestra
1990s Metal and Industrial Music
DC Vertigo Comic Books
Obscure Fast Food Restaurants

Your turn. You're on Jeopardy and, as Alex starts reading off that night's categories for the first or second round, it slowly dawns on you that you have this game in the bag. What are they? Comment and tell me.

Christmas Concert Time

2010-12-15T09:10:00.000-08:00

Have you stopped by Citizen of the Month's blog yet today? You really should.

That is all.

Really, that's it. Go. Listen to the beautiful music.

I Put That Post in the Wrong Place.

2010-12-08T17:28:00.000-08:00

Go to my tumblr page. That's where I blogged today.

At Some Point I'm Going to be Interesting Enough Again to Restart Blogging. Oh Wait.

2010-12-07T21:00:00.000-08:00

My life, being cyclical, has come back around to me having gainful, albeit temporary, employment. I have an interview soon as well for a longer-term, but still temporary, assignment. I'll plan to pay off one of my major debts; the fact that I'll pay this off much sooner than I expected, while awesome, comes at a pretty steep price that I had very little to do with. (Brief aside to the unemployment benefits center in my home state: while I'm glad you made it easy [as well as mandatory] to pay off your debt, you pretty much made it impossible to pay off any others. Thanks for helping me get you off my back, though.) Money, that necessary evil, will start being somewhat easier to come by.

My personal life has picked up its pace. Singing with the Seattle Men's Chorus has reopened some doors in the world and my mind. That's the moderately flowery way of saying it. Here's a more dramatic way: I feel like my life took a turn for the worse when I stopped singing, and ever since I restarted singing with a group, I feel better and like I have a more positive outlook on life in general.

I leave you with this final thought. This post is a perfect example of what happens when I stop writing.

Point/Counterpoint

2010-11-19T17:15:00.000-08:00

Point, from Nicholas Kristof:

Earlier this month, I offended a number of readers with a column suggesting that if you want to see rapacious income inequality, you no longer need to visit a banana republic. You can just look around.
My point was that the wealthiest plutocrats now actually control a greater share of the pie in the United States than in historically unstable countries like Nicaragua, Venezuela and Guyana. But readers protested that this was glib and unfair, and after reviewing the evidence I regretfully confess that they have a point.
That’s right: I may have wronged the banana republics.

Counterpoint, from Will Wilkinson:

There are many possible causes of a high level of income inequality. The historically most typical cause is the concentration of political power in the hands of a predatory elite. This is the main explanation for the typically high levels of Latin American income inequality. This is not the main explanation for the high levels of income inequality in the United States and Great Britain. The main explanation for widening income gaps in wealthy, advanced liberal democracies is a complicated combination of (1) increasing economic returns to the acquisition of high levels of skill; (2) low supply of highly-skilled workers relative to demand; (3) changes in the way executives are paid, and in the norms governing executive pay; (4) technology-driven magnification of top rewards in "winner-take-all" or "superstar" markets; and (5) relatively low political demand for higher levels of progressive redistribution. Unlike expropriation and monopolisation by ruling elites, none of these causes of rising inequality are particularly objectionable in their own right. In a plutocratic California, it bears pointing out, the state's fourth wealthiest person wouldn't have become such by running a company that creates immense consumer surplus by dramatically lowering the transaction costs of selling goods to a large market.

Keep in mind that I have no real experience in politics or macroeconomics. That said, and while I believe that Mr. Wilkinson has a point, I only know what I see. And what I see is the rich getting extremely rich, wanting to stay that way, and being willing to do anything and run over anyone in that effort.

I'm painting with a broad brush, to be sure. But what am I supposed to think when I hear that arms of my federal government want to save pennies by no longer extending unemployment insurance but spend much more by extending tax cuts to people that make more money in a week than I will ever see?

I'm going to start thinking crazy thoughts. Like I'm actually living in Bolivia in 1986.

Yuck! Disgusting Mushiness Follows. Don't Read This. Save Yourself.

2010-11-15T10:00:00.000-08:00

How'd you sleep last night?

I look up from my laptop, half-smile creasing my face at the question. "Alright, I guess. How about you?"

She walks toward me as she answers. I kept waking up. You were really snuggly last night in your sleep. I think you feel asleep before me, and when I put my Macbook away and rolled over to sleep, you went, "Aaaaaaahhh..." and wrapped your arms around me.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

I'm not. She hugs me. Kisses me once. Twice. It was really sweet.

"I love you."

I love you, too. I'd know even if you didn't tell me.

Insert Appropriate Title Here.

2010-11-08T15:25:00.000-08:00

Day 6: Something You Hope You Never Have to Do

I hope that I never have to watch my child die or learn of my child's death.

Full Disclosure: I don't have children and might not have them any time soon. This could change, of course, but not for a while; Lovely Girlfriend and I have to be monetarily and emotionally strong, both individually and as a couple. (I'd imagine that readers who are parents would probably retort that there is really no perfect time to have a child, but I would submit that, while that might be true, there are certainly better times than right after you meet someone, while you are an apartment manager, and do not have a steady, paying job.)

Having said all of that, this strikes me as the saddest thing that can happen to a person. I don't envy the parents who have to deal with this particular brand of grief.

This is The First Time I've Finished a "30 Days of Truth" Post and Felt Pretty Good About It. Seriously.

2010-11-01T17:07:00.000-07:00

Day 5: Something You Hope to Do in Your Life

I feel like I've already answered this question. Wait let me see if I can't find it...

Ah, yes, there it is.

Amazingly, I've done one of the things on this list and will being doing a couple more by year's end. I feel really, really good about this.

Am I done? Of course not. I'm not even done adding things to the list.

I Allowed My Tumblr Feed to Eat My Brain for a While. For That I Apologize. Back to The Serious Blogging. Whatever That Means.

2010-10-28T13:58:00.000-07:00

First off, today's long overdue installment of 30 Days of Truth.

Day 4: Something You Have to Forgive Someone For.

This is the hardest one to date (until the next hard one, which could be soon, or tomorrow, or never) (I'm stalling).

I don't really give myself much call to forgive other people, seeing as how I generally blame myself for just about everything wrong that happens to me.

Having said that, I don't often have a very positive view of other people. I hiss under my breath (or sometimes over my breath) about how he cut me off in line at the movies, or how she won't stop yapping loudly on her cellphone when I'm sitting right in front of her on the bus, or how they laugh too loudly and talk about the stupidest fucking shit I've ever heard when I'm out to eat with Lovely Girlfriend. I'm more than aware that this is my problem, and mine alone. Someone once told me, "People aren't doing things to you. They are only thinking of themselves," and then she would add with a significant look, "Just like everyone else."

On the one hand, I see the point of the statement above as, "No one's out to get you or annoy you or take what's yours. At least on purpose. Get over yourself." Which, yeah, okay, I see the truth in that, at least intellectually. Every person on the planet, while not necessarily aggressively looking out for number one, certainly doesn't take into account every single other person's potential point of view before laughing without abandon at a funny joke that a friend told in a crowded restaurant. Nor should they.

Which brings up an interesting point, perhaps: Lovely Girlfriend has shushed me more than once for laughing without abandon at the funny jokes she often tells and humorous anecdotes she often recounts. Which tells me that I get pissy with other people for doing the same shit that I do a lot, namely just living their lives, and living them out loud. Just because I don't like what they're doing doesn't give me carte blanche to judge them aloud for doing it.

I might still judge them silently. I'll work on it. Baby steps.

Which, in a circuitous way, brings me back to today's prompt. What do I have to forgive someone else for? I think that the closest thing I have for an answer is, "I need to understand that others aren't purposefully annoying me by living their lives. I am the farthest thing from any random stranger's mind. They don't need to take my point of view into account before acting, and I don't need to judge them for doing things that they clearly enjoy." This answer becomes less about forgiving others (since, really, how arrogant would that be) and more about exercising tolerance. I believe that that's a healthier way to live.

I'm still going to judge the fuck out of that that asshole who cut me off in line at the movies though. There's really no getting around that.

With the changing of the seasons has come a corresponding change in my mood; you might poetically say, if you were so inclined, that my mood darkens with the day. Is it SAD? Not sure. If it is, it's not all that serious, as taking my St. John's Wort regularly seems to help, as does regular caffeine ingestion. Still, not being one to do things in half measures (at least now), I've taken couple suggestions from Lovely Girlfriend in an effort to not digress emotionally into a unrepentant, irrevocable, misanthropic malcontent. Because, really, nobody wants that.

One of Lovely Girlfriend's suggestions comes from one of her friends' blogs. (Sadly, I don't know which one.) This friend apparently also struggles with having a positive attitude and starting writing out three small things every day in an effort to turn it around. I thought that might be a good idea, and so have co-opted it.

Today's Three Small Things:

I make extremely delicious pancakes fried in bacon grease.
I applied to 15 jobs last week, helping to bring my three-week total to 26 so far.
I started Neil Gaiman's delightful book Stardust on Tuesday and can't wait to finish it.

There. A fantastic start, I should think.

I Think I Actually Answered Today's Writing Prompt of Truth. How About That?

2010-10-15T15:11:00.000-07:00

Day 3: Something You Have to Forgive Yourself For

To be honest, I'm not in the mood to answer this one. I feel like I make mistakes all the time in creative and ingenious ways, and that I'll just turn this entry into a whining, self-flagellating catalog of errors real and imagined, great and small. I could also take a route that spins me as a person that is totally learning from all of his mistakes and slowly, oh-so-slowly becoming a better person for it.

You know what? I'm not sure either of those approaches, or any approach to this prompt, tells a well-rounded story. Because I don't have just one thing that I have to forgive myself for. I have a ton. But that's for me to work out.

In my mind, this prompt asks me to write out all of my mistakes. No thanks. This blog is essentially a vast repository for my mistakes; I'm not going to rehash them, certainly not with the knowledge that I'll beat myself up over it all.

Perhaps that's it, though. Perhaps I need to forgive myself for everything that I roll around in my head, that comes up when I'm down. That's a lot, to be honest.

Once I start down that road, it'll be hard to stop. And I have to mean that forgiveness. I'm not sure what I'll look like, or what that forgiveness feels like. I might change fundamentally (possibly a good thing, but who knows). I feel like I've held myself down for so long that it'll feel fake to forgive myself for past failings. Plus, what about the others that I wronged? They should have a say, right? And what if they laugh or metaphorically spit on my request for forgiveness?

Or am I missing the point again? Is the point to be comfortable enough with myself and in touch enough with my emotions that I don't need to ask forgiveness, because, in becoming comfortable and in touch, I've already forgiven myself?

If I were a different person, I'd've posted a video of a song or a picture of some hot Asian woman (Grant typically has this covered, though). Instead, I muse on this writing prompt for about 30 minutes and then decide that I don't have the stones to actually do what the writing prompt is asking. Maybe I'll write my answer to day 4 (on Monday) more easily.

Self-Love Does Not Mean Pleasuring Oneself. Okay, This Title Is Weak, Even by My Standards.

2010-10-14T12:27:00.000-07:00

Day 2: Something You Love About Yourself.

"Fucking hipster," I muttered after someone that fit my personal, ever-changing definition walked by us.

My lovely girlfriend looked over at me from her spot on the stoop, exhaling smoke. "And what," she asked, "is a 'hipster'?"

"Someone that I don't like," I quipped in response, prompting a bit of laughter.

After a moment's pause, I explained myself a bit more. "To me, a hipster is someone that seems to work hard at actively affecting a dispassionate air about something that they do. As a self-proclaimed geek, I actively and passionately pursue the things that interest me. Granted, these things might not interest anyone else, and might even make people embarrassed for me, but I typically don't care. In my view, if you care about something, fucking care about it."

This is something that I love about myself. My interests completely engage me, whether it be either for a short time or something that I end up taking with me to the end of my days. I could cite my love for music in general and singing and trumpet playing in particular, but I have many interests that I feel, and have felt, passionately about.

And, yes, you can feel passionately about something for only a short while, at least in my view. And, yes, you don't have to love a thing to feel passionately about it.

As I write this, I feel the focus of the "something that I love about myself" changing slightly: when I feel passionately about something, people around me can fucking tell. Depending on your point-of-view, you might consider this to be a good or bad thing. If I'm honest with myself, I'll admit that I love this about myself. I believe that I lack the ability to hide my feelings about something I feel passionately about in any meaningful way. This can lead to some difficult situations, especially when I have trouble seeing the good things in my life. (See Day 1 of "30 Days of Truth.") Good or bad, this adds the perhaps expected side benefit: others will absolutely know how I think about something.

Don't confuse lack of duplicity for lack of tact, however. Yes, one can (and often does) lead to the other in my case. I can be tactful, and it's not hard work to choose to be so. What I'm talking about here is not whether I simply blurt out opinions on issues but how I feel about things. Lack of passion shouldn't be encouraged or cultivated. You want a beard? Grow one. Love old gas-guzzling American muscle cars? Good for you; tell me all about it. Think Jean-Luc Picard is the better Federation Starship captain over James T. Kirk? Awesome, but why?

Fucking feel. I try to do this everyday. It's the one thing that I consistently love about myself.

My Friends Know That I'm a Follower, For Better or Worse. Which is Why I'm Doing This Thing. Plus, It's Been A While Since I've Proven That I'm Really A Woman.

2010-10-13T11:38:00.000-07:00

It would seem that some Well-Established Bloggers® are starting another self-affirmation, ego-check blogging meme called, "30 Days of Truth," which sounds nothing like 28 Days Later, unless you link all of the writing prompts to zombies in some way. This sounds like something that I would totally do, a "30 Days of Truth About Zombies." Actually, no, it doesn't.

Anyway, since I'm done mocking the idea (for now), I'm going to participate. Because, along with the aforementioned Well-Established Bloggers®, some Bloggers That I Actually Like and Respect© are doing this thing. Some will take this meme as seriously as it deserves to be taken and others will take about as seriously as they take themselves. To be honest, I'm doing this meme thing mainly because it provides me with a month of writing prompts. Plus, I might actually learn (or relearn) quite a few things about myself, which I've heard is always a good thing.

And so, here we fucking go.

Day 1: Something You Hate About Yourself

I've started this paragraph three times at this point. Not because I can't think of anything to say, mind you; I have plenty to say. I hate quite a bit about myself, to be honest; perhaps I hate more than I should. However, saying that I'm going to narrow down my exceptionally long list to one or two things seems the same as listing out all of my perceived failings and saying that I hate them every one; it's just a different kind of attention-whoring.

I used every single one of those semicolons correctly. Dispute me.

Back on topic.

Am I too hard on myself?

Yes. That's it.

When I get down on myself, I find it next to impossible to see the good things in my life. I get down on myself for any number of reasons, sometimes preventable (take your St. John's Wort, big fella) and sometimes completely out of the blue and unforeseen.

The point: I hate when I get into one of these moods and it's incredibly hard for me to pull myself out of them. I feel like I drag down everyone around me. I mutter under my breath, call myself nasty names, listen to the horrible things that my brain voices tell me about myself.

GAH! I hate writing about this shit. I fucking hate it. It feels fake. It feels like, "Hey, everybody! Look how awesome and self-aware I am! I know I'm damaged and I'm totally going to take steps to fix that shit, because I'm awesome!" I need to actually do something, but what? I feel like I've been down for so long that I don't know what up is. Which is totally bullshit, because I have so much going for me: I live rent-free (monetarily, that is) because of my apartment management gig; I have the love of a lovely woman and caring family; I live in a major metropolitan area, surrounded by so many things to see and do, and most of them within easy walking distance or a convenient bus ride away. I could be better at cultivating friendships, maybe, but I feel like the friends that I do have I will have for a long, long time.

When I get into the funk, it's hard to see all that.

And I hate that. I hate that I can't see all the good things when some bad things come along. And bad things will always come long.

I need to keep perspective better. I wish I knew how.

You Will Miss The Point of This Post If You Simply Write It Off As An Excuse To Jump On The "It Gets Better" Bandwagon.

2010-10-12T11:29:00.000-07:00

During the summer between my sophomore and junior years of college, I worked as a server at a wholesome family restaurant near my old hometown, the kind of restaurant that serves you a complementary glass of milk with your meal and offers the meatloaf special on Tuesdays. It was (perhaps still is) a local mainstay, and has long been associated with the dairy farm and convenience store chain by the same name. Working there was like the opposite of working at a "bar and grill," in that we got busy early in the evening and quite often in the middle of the week, but after the dinner rush ended at 7 p.m., the restaurant stayed dead, dead, dead until closing time at 9 p.m.

I worked here because I didn't trust myself to be able to work at a restaurant like T.G.I Friday's: all fast-paced and booze-slinging and over-sexed. This place would be much better, and I'd probably make as much money. I mean, it's a restaurant, right? I'm still working for tips. (The vast incorrect nature of that last series of sentences might be addressed at a later time, if ever.)

I quickly established myself as a dinner-shift regular. I worked hard, made a few friends (but not too many), helped out my other servers, bussed my own tables; I basically tried to do all the things that a stereotypical good server would do. Don't rock the boat, smile, earn your tips, and go home.

So, I didn't really understand why the dishwashers started making fun of me. They were local high school students, doing a job they could do without too much effort, and that generally offered them a quite a bit of downtime at the beginning of each shift.

Which I guess meant they had plenty of time to cover my car with tampons and pads. Every night that I worked the dinner shift at this wholesome family restaurant for a week.

At first, I had no idea why. Truth be told, I didn't even know who was doing it until one of the servers that smoked out back told me about it; she must have seen them doing it without being seen herself and starting asking around about the owner of the car being vandalized. When I found out, I assumed these meatheaded kids were bored (or maybe high or possibly both) and trying to amuse themselves. But why use feminine hygiene products? And why my car? I didn't remember provoking them at all. I didn't even really talk to them, except to drop off dishes in large, black plastic tubs. Did I say something to set them off? Do something?

As it turns out, I had done something. I had the temerity to have a button on my backpack with this symbol on it:

Silly college boy, displaying a pink triangle where anyone in that rural town could've seen it. In my car. In a parking lot behind a building. That's what I get for associating myself with a movement that I felt (and still feel) strongly about.

Don't get me wrong: as a straight white male by birth, I have no idea what it is like to go through what many (most? all?) LGBT youths go through on a regular basis. My one week of car vandalization doesn't even begin to compare to the horror that I imagine most young homosexual folks go though, just like my participation in the Seattle Men's Chorus doesn't grant me any special awareness about how gay men live or act. My brief bullying provided me with the barest glimpse into a world that I'm not a part of and will never truly understand.

This doesn't mean that I didn't learn a valuable lesson, or gain some insight anyway. Regardless, I don't have to hide my sexual orientation. I can be who I am without fearing too many reprisals. Many (most?) LGBT kids can't be that way.

Which is why, if you haven't yet, you should watch this video. And if you have, you should watch it again.

There's no good reason why LGBT kids should be treated like non-humans. So, I try to do my part to make sure that it does, in fact, get better for these kids. We owe it to ourselves as humans to do the same.

I Would Save a Lot of Time, I Think, By Simply Linking to the Other Posts That I've Already Written About This Shit. Except That You Wouldn't Get Your Bonus Earworm.

2010-10-08T09:46:00.000-07:00

First, hi there. It's been a little while. Almost a month, in fact, since I've posted anything, let alone anything substantive. (Not that there's anything wrong with ABBA, mind you. It's just, well, that you can get fluff anywhere.)

Next, if I'm posting I must be unemployed again. (Test to readership: find the logical fallacy in that last statement.) I am, though; my assignment lasted only a month. Shame on me for assuming that they would hire me; I was being told "You're right; we will" from one end and "We don't hire from temp agencies" from another, but should have worked to keep my name in the hat for other places. Shame on me, also, for leaving that job the way that I did; I'm not 12-years-old, but I certainly acted in an immature fashion on my way out. (Here's where I would make excuses for myself. Fuck that noise. I acted poorly; if the shoe was on the other foot, I would probably have addressed that situation in a similar manner.)

Regardless, I have oodles of time on my hands now. Again. Still. Whatever. A good portion of that time will be spent looking for work again, and a good portion of the remainder will be spent working around the apartment building. The remainder of the remainder will be spent... doing... other stuff. I don't know. Whatever it was that I did the last time that I was "between jobs."

Blogging, I guess.

Mini-Post: Working for a Living

2010-09-10T07:37:00.000-07:00

You know those posts that some bloggers write that're basically excuses to apologize for being scarce, half-hearted promises to return to a normal blogging schedule after "everything gets back to normal," and pleas to keep that blogger's meager readership from dwindling away to nothing?

Yeah, I hate those, too.

Which is why, instead of writing a post like that, I'm going to attempt a distraction.

Oh look! ABBA!

Fernando - Abba

As you were.

Musical Interlude: Labor Day Edition

2010-09-06T10:30:00.000-07:00

Don't forget, kids! The blood, sweat, and tears of the proletariat are the reason for the season.

I've Potentially Met One of My Four Major Goals. I Shall Have a Soda And a Snuggle to Celebrate.

2010-09-03T16:38:00.000-07:00

It took three years after I graduated from college to get what I would now consider a "grown-up job." In the intervening years, I worked as wait-staff for two different sports bars and The Olive Garden (not simultaneously), a forklift operator, an order picker, a bookseller at Barnes and Noble, and a mainframe computer operator for a restaurant food wholesaler. Supervisors from half of these listed jobs fired me. My early job history is checkered. As I imagine most folks' are. I managed to make my life bearable in a variety of weed-smoking and binge-drinking ways during that time, so this time of my life, while hazy at best, was at the very least interesting.

Every six months or so, however, I would apply at a place that I would eventually come to call The Factory. The Factory, one of three businesses that employed most of the population of my hometown in Amish Country, represented the pinnacle of job security and salary potential to me at that time. This became my sole reason for wanting to work there, and was the major reason that I accepted the job when they finally offered me one. Sure, I knew that they printed books and financial documents and other stuff like that, and I felt that my degree in communications and journalism would give me an in (which it eventually did, I suppose), but all I really wanted was a steady paycheck and a few creature comforts.

Somewhere along the line those goals changed. Yes, The Factory Bosses paid me, and paid me well, for the work that I did. They even started giving me more responsibility after I paid my dues and proved I could handle it. But they also helped instill in me a larger love for the printed word, which is something that I didn't even know they did until after I left that job and moved to Seattle with my now-ex-wife. (I tell that story elsewhere.)

I have carried this love of language and printing everywhere. I've worked jobs that made it a priority and others that minimized its importance, but I've never lost this love. I didn't always enjoy working at The Factory, but that had nothing to do with the work. Taking a rough draft through all the changes and making it into something that I could be proud of (and what an odd thing, to be proud of a well-crafted financial document) became something that I would miss later in life. It's one of the reasons why I blog, to sort of get back that craft aspect of writing. I would take jobs that emphasized communication as an important aspect, but communicating is not the same as editing and proofreading.

And, like it or not, I'm an editor. You might be hard pressed to believe it sometimes, reading the dreck that I often produce on this here blog, but there you have it. I'm the grunt of the literary world. I can take your skeleton of a document and make it better. I nitpick over serial commas. I make your verb tenses agree with your subjects. I fucking know when to use "who" and when to use "whom." I know that it's perfectly acceptable to begin a sentence with "and," but I don't like it and will counsel against it. I know that I used the right word in that last sentence. I am your last line of defense against putting out a story or article that could be dismissed out-of-hand for any number of reasons as being unprofessional or sloppy. I'm proud of this and I'm not going to fight against that.

So, of course, I'm very, very glad that I start my new job as a document editor on Tuesday.

Musical Interlude: Or, What Is It About Ludacris That Makes Me All Happy n'Shit?

2010-09-02T16:26:00.000-07:00

Despite my best efforts, I kept coming back around to the darkness in my brain. Or, you know, something else poetical that helps you believe that I continued to struggle against a bad mood.

Then, while I was vacuuming the carpets in the building, this song played on my iPod:

And now I feel a little better.

Musings on the Seattle Men's Chorus

2010-08-27T17:43:00.000-07:00

As a white, Anglo-Saxon, (nominally) Protestant, straight man, I would be hard pressed to find any place in the Western world, even in Seattle, where I would not be in the majority.

After joining the Seattle Men's Chorus, I have found that place. Thank god.

Two men asked me during the audition process if I realized that I would be one of, at most, 12 straight men in the chorus. I told both of them that I didn't care, as long as they didn't care that I was straight. We laughed about that.

And they still selected me to be in the chorus. I must sing really, really well.

From what I understand, Seattle Men's Chorus is, if not the largest, then one of the largest GALA choruses in the United States. They support Diverse Harmony, "the nation's first gay-straight alliance youth chorus." They, along with Seattle Women's Chorus, have a very ambitious vision ("A world that accepts and values its gay and lesbian citizens.") and mission ("Seattle Men's Chorus and Seattle Women's Chorus entertain, enlighten, unify and heal our audience and members, using the power of words and music to recognize the value of gay and straight people and their relationships.").

I learned all of this at last evening's orientation session.

Seattle Men's Chorus does not fuck around. They are organized, passionate, and motivated. They have fun and get to work in equal measure. They reach out to the community and The Community. They recognize their flaws (e.g., too many white people on the board of directors, too little emphasis on the "B" and "T" of "LGBT" in the chorus), but work diligently to correct them.

And they are willing to accept and welcome anyone.

This sounds like a fantastic group to be a part of. I can't wait to get started.

Plus, you know, they have good taste in music.

I Wrote This Post While Trying to Think of What the Hell I Wanted to Write About. My Laziness Almost Got the Better of Me. TAKE THAT, LAZINESS.

2010-08-25T17:25:00.000-07:00

I feel laziness starting to set in.

Actually, I think laziness has already set and just needs to be pulled out of the fridge so we can have it for dessert.

Tasty, tasty laziness. Yum. It tastes like chocolate.

What the hell? This is your answer to beating the laziness bug? Writing a post that equates it to chocolate mousse?

I never said that my laziness tasted like chocolate mousse. I said that it tasted like chocolate. I never specified the dessert.

Details.

Plus, does mousse need to set? Let alone in the fridge? Let's find out...

That's not the point! You have things to do! Things that don't have anything to do with chocolate mousse!

Ah, here we go. Nope, chocolate mousse doesn't need to set in the fridge. At least, Alton Brown's chocolate mousse doesn't need to. I must have been thinking of pudding.

Excellent. Well done. You solved the mystery.

Alton Brown creates the best recipes. I think it's because he's a geek. A dreamy food geek that I totally man-crush on.

That's awesome. Glad you're so open-minded that you can admit your strong man-crush feelings for Alton "Science: It's What's for Dinner" Brown. Now, let's get back on task, shall we?

Hey, what the fuck?! LOOK AT THE TIME. I have to start dinner before Lovely Girlfriend gets home! Why didn't you try to get me back on task?

You finally get motivated and you blame me? Give me a break.

You're my conscience. You're supposed to keep me on track! If you would just do your job every once in a while, I'd never get in these predicaments.

That's right, get it out of your system. I can take it. Just, how about you give me the what-for while you cook the rice and chicken for tonight's dinner. Like you said you would.

... Right.

Good man.

Thank you.

STOP STALLING.

Okay, okay! Jeez!

I Think That Other Pressures, Like Lack of Funds, Underemployment, and All the Rest of That Jazz, Contributed to This Morning's Hard Feelings. Happily, We Can Play The Adult Card and Work That Shit Out.

2010-08-24T21:07:00.000-07:00

The alarm clock sounded at 6am; I fought back by smacking the snooze button. Nine minutes later, the alarm clock got its revenge.

I turned off the alarm, and looked to my left. Lovely Girlfriend lay there beside me, looking to me to be snoozing contentedly. I smiled and slid off the bed, revving up my mind to begin my morning ritual: email, coffee, breakfast, job hunt, dress, walk her to work. Another start to a pretty good day.

The kitchen had other ideas. Dishes covered every available surface except the floor. Well, shit. The potential for a good morning mood started diminishing rapidly.

I started washing dishes, then checked the time, because I hadn't yet started making coffee and coffee is pretty important in our apartment, so I needed to check the time to see how much time I'd potentially wasted in washing dishes, and, having noted the time, decided that I should start grinding the beans for the coffee and clean out the filter and get the coffee brewing so that when that was started I could go back to washing the dishes because many of the dishes that I needed for cooking breakfast were still dirty from last night and plus I needed working room to make scrambled eggs with cheese and mushrooms and tomatoes, but then the coffee finished brewing and I'd only washed a few things, among them the two coffee mugs that we needed for our coffee, so I poured out the coffee and took her her mug of coffee while she worked on her early morning online chores and then headed back to the kitchen and started washing dishes again so that I could finally get started on breakfast because the time was quickly approaching 7am at this point and I had scrambled eggs with cheese and tomatoes and mushrooms to make and bread to toast and COULDN'T SHE SEE THAT I WAS BEHIND AND NEEDED HER HELP WHAT THE FUCK.

My brain inserted a little bit of resentment. Not cool, brain; that's not how the morning routine works around here. You know that.

My brain has never listened to me.

Anyway, my brain, having planted the resentment seed, kept on whispering little silly things. I, in turn, starting banging pots a little louder, cursing a little more forcefully, glowering a little more. She came into the kitchen, sweetness personified, and hugged me.

Whatever. (What a shitty thing to think.)

Finally, I completed breakfast and laid it out on the table. Lovely Girlfriend, being an empathetic sort, asked me what was going on. So I told her.

And we talked about it. Actually, we had a brief argument about it. I felt like shit for even bringing it up, because, if there's one thing that my brain does well, it's make me feel a thing, and then make me feel bad for feeling that thing.

The argument remains between Lovely Girlfriend and me. Suffice it to say that some minor things will change slightly, and I have apologized for my actions, and she has accepted that, and we will move on to the next thing.

Yes, this is a real relationship, people. We do not have cutesy little "mock-fights" about taking the last scoop of ice cream or hanging up the phone first. (Anymore.) We live together. We share space. Things will happen. Unless we talk about the little things, they will fester into big, infected buboes of resentment and hostility that will burst all over everyone. And no one want to clean that up. (Also: ew. What kind of extended metaphor was that?)

I Should Probably Start Warming Up Soon. I'll Wait Until After All My Apartment Showings Today. Don't Want To Freak Anyone Out.

2010-08-20T13:23:00.000-07:00

As of this writing, I have about six hours until my audition with the Seattle Men's Chorus.

I took to singing when I was very young and stuck with it through high school and into college. I performed in musical theater, auditioned for district- and regional-wide choirs for high school kids across a large area, traveled with my high school and college choirs: I guess I was hot shit if you're into music geeks with nice voices.

Then I discovered pot. This discovery lead to a gradual decline in my interest in such creative things.

(Have you noticed a theme on my blog yet? I get good at something, I learn to love it, I discover weed, I let that thing that I loved so very much fall to the wayside. Such is the way of the world.)

(Note that I have no problems with marijuana, except for my own personal over-ingesting of it, and really don't care who does and doesn't smoke it. You can decide for yourself what you put in your body. Know your limit. /psa)

Of course, it doesn't bear thinking over much on the vagaries of my youth. I did what I did, and now I'm doing what I want to do. And what I'm doing is preparing for an audition in less than six hours.

It's been *cough* years since I've sung in a more or less formal setting. I think this might be my chance to give it another shot.

The nerves haven't hit me yet. I'd actually like them to, and soon.

It Pleases Me to No End That Lovely Girlfriend Doesn't Need Grand Romantic Gestures. I Think I'll Try Give Her One At Some Point. Shake Things Up.

2010-08-19T18:20:00.000-07:00

"I love you. Never doubt that."

And so began a series of texts between Lovely Girlfriend and me about the difference between grand gestures and public declarations of love versus the everyday sweet things that can, to my mind, be overlooked. I will refrain from posting that conversation since that's for us.

Still, I struggle with thinking that I sometimes don't do enough. Which might make others laugh.

Okay, fine, so here's what I do:

I make breakfast and brew coffee during the week. (Usually some sort of scramble and a side of toast.)
I make and pack her lunch before she goes to work.
I wash and fold our laundry, a chore that she hates.
I clean the bathroom and vacuum the apartment, also chores that she hates.
I wash the dishes.
When I have the money, I foot the bill for dinner out, or an ice cream cone, or coffee and a doughnut.
I hold her hand when I walk with her. IN PUBLIC. WHERE ANYONE CAN SEE.
I often stop while walking down the street so that I can hug and/or kiss her. (Yes, we are that couple.)

I might do other things, but I can't think of them right now, and, to tell the truth, I don't want this list to sound like I want to be recognized for the everyday things that a loving couple should do for one another.

I haven't yet done some things, though:

Plan a scavenger-hunt of places that mean something to the both of us (first time we held hands/kissed/made out/looked at each other/laughed at the other one's funny joke) so that we end up at a picnic spot where we while away the hours snacking on cheese and meats, listening to a string quartet softly play Bach in the background.
Book a trip to [insert name of exotic locale of the month here] [probably Lapland] where we cavort with the natives, learn about the local culture, take in the romantic sights, and lie on the beach (which would be cold in Lapland, depending on the season in which we travel there) bodies entwined while the aforementioned natives fan us with the local foliage.
Compose an epic sonnet cycle detailing my undying love and devotion for Lovely Girlfriend, which would most likely contain something like, "The sun rises and sets on your unending beauty and grace/The harvest moon is naught but stone before your face." Or something equally poetical.

I've run out of ideas for grand gestures to declare my love in as dramatic a fashion as possible. I welcome suggestions.

I Have Yet to Delve Into the Queue Where The Writing Assignments Are. If I Have To Write On Feminine Hygiene Products, I'm Going To Be Upset.

2010-08-18T18:00:00.000-07:00

I applied on a lark, really. I had ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA that my application would even be looked at, let alone taken seriously. But it appears that my years of proofreading and copyediting (that is so how you spell that word, God damn it), plus the writing sample that I provided that wasn't good enough for one of the largest eCommerce sites in the US, have landed me a job as a freelance writer.

I've been letting that sink in for a most of the afternoon.

I don't have any formal writing experience. I wrote mock news articles for my broadcast journalism classes that proved to be good enough to help me earn a 2.895 GPA, but I did that over 15 years ago and all I've retained from that experience is a healthy disdain for the passive voice and the somewhat dubious and very rusty ability to write a 30-second ad spot without stopping to read it aloud to a stopwatch after every two sentences I've typed.

[Note: You probably read the above in about 15 seconds. Time it.]

But, what I do have I've gained from the aforementioned blue-collar copyediting and proofreading grunt work while working at The Factory and writing between two and twenty blog posts per month since April of last year. Trail and error. Finding my voice. Writing and rewriting. I've posted some real clunkers here; apparently I've posted some really well-written things, too. I hope that the good outnumbers the bad.

I think it also helps that, for the last three years, I've been surrounded by writers of all kinds. Mostly bloggers, but every person whose blog I read has a different and distinct style. Humorists, satirists, storytellers, diarists: they helped me try out new things (often subconsciously) and they all deserve a thank you.

So, thank you. If you're reading this, you've probably helped me get this job.

No, you can't get a cut of my earnings. Get your own damn writing job.

I Wonder If the Woman That I Spoke to Today Has a Blog. I Wonder if She Blogged About This. Perhaps Not; Pretty Sure She Deals With This Shit Everyday.

2010-08-17T17:59:00.000-07:00

Hello. This is the call that was requested from the Washington State Unemployment Benefits Hotline. When... "Mighty Hunter"... is on the line, please press "one."

BEEEEEEEEEP

I turn to Lovely Girlfriend during our walk to her workplace, phone to my ear, my face a slipping mask of professionalism and cordiality. "You might not want to listen to this. I will probably say some nasty things." Moments pass in silence as we continue walking up the hill that gives our Seattle neighborhood its name. "At least the hold music is good." My quip doesn't break the tension.

Hello, and thanks for calling the Washington State Unemployment Benefits Hotline. I'm an nameless, faceless employee who's just trying to do her job. Can I have your name please?

"Yes, my name is Mighty Hunter."

Thank you, Mr. Hunter. And for security purposes, can I have you verify your address, phone number, date of birth, sexual orientation, mother's maiden name, and favorite dessert at your favorite restaurant, please?

I do so. [Note: cannoli.]

Thank you! How can I help you today?

"Well, okay. So I re-applied for unemployment benefits last week, as you requested I do, and filed for unemployment benefits on Sunday as I usually do, but I didn't receive a deposit today. "

Let me check... Yes, that's correct.

"Okay, so, I guess I want to know why."

This week is your waiting week. You don't get paid on your waiting week.

"Okay, why not?"

Because it's the law.

My already not-so-professional demeanor slips completely off. "Why? I don't understand." (I may or may not have said that last sentence. I also may or may not have snapped at the poor woman.)

It's the law. You don't get paid for the first week of a new claim.

I seethe. I grit my teeth. I'm angry at this women who is only doing her job. She becomes a focus for my impotent rage at a situation that I have absolutely no control over. I will regret this conversation later, I just know it, but I can't help myself right now. My passive-aggressive entitlement complex that the City of Seattle issues you when you move here comes to the fore. I hear myself saying: "So, I'm going to have to carry a negative balance in my checking account for a week, even though I did everything that I was SUPPOSED to do, because it's the law. I did EVERYTHING that I..."

Sir, if you spend the money before you have it, this is what happens.

OH MY FUCKING GOD NO YOU DID NOT JUST TRY TO GIVE ME A LECTURE ON MONEY FUCKING MANAGEMENT WHEN YOU DO NOT FUCKING KNOW ME. Any sympathy that I have (and should still have, honestly) for this woman ceases to fucking exist.

[Note: Yes, I regularly cut my bank balance to the razor's edge of closeness, but I have not had an overdraft in over two months. I balance my fucking checkbook. I check my balance regularly against my bank records online. My balance was slim yesterday, but in the plus column, and would have remained there so that the automatic withdrawal of funds for my credit consolidation payment, scheduled for today, could have been taken from my checking account without so much as a whimper. That is, if I had received my benefits payment today. Which I did not. Because it's the law.]

[I did not explain any of the above to the woman on the other end of the line. I was too irrationally angry. I doubt it would have mattered anyway.]

Lovely Girlfriend and I stop walking. She turns to face me, but I'm focused on the phone and, to my mind, the unfeeling bitch at the other end. "So, I guess I shouldn't have paid those BILLS THAT WERE DUE TODAY UNTIL NEXT WEEK, RIGHT?"

Lovely Girlfriend hisses at me: "Don't take it out on her!" But it's too late. I've given my passive-aggressive rationale, my Seattlite equivalent of mortar fire from behind cover.

The Unemployment Benefits Hotline employee and I embrace the ensuing silence. Slightly more clearheaded after my volley, I imagine her, sitting in her cube, in her air-conditioned cube-farm, head-set on, face set in a professional mask just as convincing as mine was at the beginning of our conversation. I'm sure she gets yelled at every day by everyone who calls in. We are all special snowflakes, the unemployed. And we all want our money. The laws surrounding unemployment benefits vary by state, but are in place for very good reasons. We cannot have people living off unemployment. The unemployed should be looking for work, but need a certain amount of money to live and so receive a generous percentage of their former income. The laws are in place to prevent abuse. I understand this.

I know that I'm not abusing the system. She does not. She doesn't know me. She never will. This will most likely be our last conversation. Our only conversation.

Sir, do you have any other questions I can help you wi...?

"THANKS FOR NOTHING."

I might as well have said "GET BENT."

Well played, Might Hunter. Well played.

Maybe If I Used a Metaphorical Battering Ram, I Could Knock Down Metaphorical Walls More Easily.

2010-08-13T12:37:00.000-07:00

From a recent phone interview: I think I'm going to stop the interview right now. I don't think you're a good fit....

Excerpt from email feedback after a recent face-to-face interview: Candidate rejected. Candidate not a fit.

I have been unemployed for 14 out of the last 24 months....

Okay, that's not true. I have a job as an apartment manager. I'm "on the books" with and the face of the property management company that officially runs the building for the owners. I get free rent on the barter system. This lucky break helps me out more than I can say, and I thank my lucky stars every day that I have even this much more spending cash, because I wouldn't be able to live at this building, or anywhere that I would like, if I didn't have this gig.

I'm also lucky enough to be able to collect unemployment benefits. This ensures that I'm able to feed myself and my lovely girlfriend, pay my bills, pay down my debt, and then partake in the occasional coffee and doughnut, or even an ice cream cone! Sure, we're not going to concerts or travelling out of state any time very soon, but do not underestimate the power of an ice cream sundae from Molly Moon's.

I will also note that Lovely Girlfriend, though she hates her job, works and brings in income, which helps ease our collective burdens even more. We are luckier than a lot of people. We take advantage of the opportunities we have by not resting on our laurels and doing what we need to do to improve our current living arrangement.

What else could I possibly want? Well...

To be able to go to the doctor for a routine physical or the dentist for a check-up and not have to worry about how I would pay for it.
To pay down my debt faster; I want to stop paying just the minimum, thereby ensuring that I actually get out of debt sometime before I die.
To improve my credit rating to a point where I'm not told that I need a co-signer when I apply for a loan (I'm willing to admit that I'm probably being unnecessarily hard on myself here).
To not have to choose between a) visiting my family and friends scattered across the east coast and b) eating.

So, I need a 8-hour-a-day job to go with my 24-hour-a-day job, so that I can make these, perhaps modest, dreams a reality.

That means looking for work.

Which, in turn, means dealing with hiring managers who base their entire opinion on your worth on two pieces of paper and a 30 to 60 minute conversation.

I will readily admit that I know nothing about the hiring process. I'm sure hiring managers and human resource employees have a tough gig finding the ideal person to fill a need for thus-and-so's department and doing so as quickly and thoroughly as possible. I also don't care, to be honest. I should care, I guess, but I'm just not in the "I get your point of view" space right now. I want a job. I have real, marketable skills. I'm motivated, intelligent, a quick school, witty, curious, realistic about my limitations, not shy about asking for help when I need it, and eager to help out others. So, really, there's only so many times that I can stand being told that I "don't fit." Who, exactly, are you looking for: the cloned offspring of Nikola Tesla, Albert Einstein, Henry Ford, and P.T. Barnum?

A friend of mine told me recently that I appear to be dealing with this shit a lot better than I did before. And she's right, to be honest. Two years ago at this time, I didn't prepare at all, and utterly blindsided by all the rejection I received, all of it from people who were just doing their jobs. They didn't know me. Not really, anyway. But I didn't see it that way; I just rode on a wave of ~~mutilation~~ self-pity that got larger and larger the longer I remained out of work. I damaged some relationships in the process. I curled up into a metaphorical ball and hated myself for seven months.

Two years later, I'm still going through this dance. I'm not curled up in a ball hating myself, though. I work hard, stay busy, get out and about. I'm connecting with people. I'm getting my résumé out there. I'm exercising, and trying to eat better. I'm managing my meager income. I'm not resting on my laurels. I'm not giving up. I'm angry, but not consumed by it. My anger motivates me, spurs me to action.

I'll keep pounding on the wall until someone lets me in. They can't keep me out forever.

Blogging Is a Competition, Too, You Know. You Want Everyone to Read Your Shit, So You Try to be More Awesome Than the Other Bloggers Out There. How Am I Doing?

2010-08-12T10:47:00.000-07:00

I have a theory about competition that, while I can't really prove this without extensive research, I believe quite a few people hold: it's bad, and makes people feel bad, and therefore we shouldn't have competition.

This is bullshit.

Keep this in mind: I'm a competitive person. I should probably be less proud of this than I am, but so be it. I love competing. I love succeeding after a competition, and, while I dislike losing in a competition, my current head-space allows me to turn that dislike into motivation.

Sometimes I turn silly things into competitions. I generally do this when I feel silly in general and I'm with someone who would get a laugh out of it anyway. Specific examples elude me at the moment, but, if you have even been around me, you know when I've decided to make something into a competition.

So, when you imply that, because we have winners and losers in competitions and losing makes people feel bad, we shouldn't compete so that everyone can be special snowflakes in their own unique way, thereby making everyone a winner by default, I reserve the right to roundly mock you.

I will now attempt to write a list of things that such people must hate, or must not do, because to do so would be to compete against someone else:

Participate in sports. I shouldn't need to explain this one. So I won't.
Play games of any sort. Again, I shouldn't need to explain this one.
Get a formalized education. With its focus on grades, whether those grades be Pass/Fail or standard letter grades, formalized education ostensibly forces the participating students to compete, both against themselves and their fellow students, for the highest possible grade. This looks good on a résumé, after all...
Work. Gainful for-profit employment has several layers of competition. If you work for a company that provides a tangible service or product, you (hopefully) work very hard to make it as awesome as possible. This means competing with other companies that create that same thing, so that you make more money for your company. On the microlevel, you compete with others to get a job with some company, you work hard to prove your worth to this company so that you can get promoted or a pay raise, which, by default, puts you in direct competition with others who have the same goals. Even in not-for-profit work, with its focus on trying to do the most good for the most people, those employed by such agencies compete with other agencies for government fund and private grants, as well as the other, aforementioned methods.
Vote. The act of voting on or for something or someone states pretty clearly that you have been required to make a choice. The ones being voted on attempt to sway you to their point of view with facts, emotional pleas, and anything else that can be thought of. In other words, they're competing for your vote.

This is by no means an exhaustive list. Think you can do better? I dare you.

The Last Time I Publicly Came Out About A Self-Destructive Habit, I Held Myself To Stopping It. Let's See If It Works Again.

2010-08-11T15:38:00.000-07:00

I've returned to my fitness regimen with a vengeance, and with that comes a sudden realization. And, since I consider myself a Well-Established Blogger® (HA!), and, more importantly, a arrogant ass who truly believes that others wait on his every word like each one is a prophesy from heaven, I will share this realization with you:

I need to stop smoking.

The sound you hear at this point is the sound of tens to dozens of followers unfollowing me. (I might be over estimating the number of followers that could be leaving, as I am perhaps overestimating the number of followers that I have to begin with.)

I've smoked off and on since last winter. No, that's a lie. I've smoked off and on since I went to college. The "off" periods became longer than the "on" periods after a while, but there were still "on" periods. I used it as a means to relax while I worked for The Factory. (Any excuse to get out of my chair, really.) I smoked cheap-ass shit (Marlboro), more expensive brands (Nat Sherman), and, most recently, American Spirit, which... I'm not sure how to describe them. Middle of the road? Does it matter?

I have several good reasons to quit smoking:

Um, it's bad for me. 'Nuff said.
It's expensive. Almost $10/pack. I could use the money that I spend on cigarettes in a week and probably get a plane ticket to the east coast in five months.
I like breathing and running, and I could do both a lot better if I stopped smoking.

I could go on, but those are the main ones.

I will smoke my last cigarette at the end of the week. I will not buy any more. The money that I would have used to buy cigarettes I will put in my savings account and get something nice at the end of the year (probably that plane ticket). Every time I feel the urge to smoke, I will take a brisk and short walk instead.

I'm under no illusions that quitting smoking makes me a better person. It just makes me an arrogant ass that doesn't smoke anymore. However, quitting smoking will enable me to harass and harrumph until I'm almost 90. Something for the rest of you to look forward to.

Mini-Post: Do Not Disturb.

2010-08-10T08:30:00.000-07:00

Lovely Girlfriend got home from BlogHer in New York City last night at 10:35pm.

Today we are spending all day (or as much of it as possible) in bed.

Come back tomorrow.

Football Season is Coming. Look Out.

2010-08-09T10:53:00.000-07:00

Football seasons starts up in earnest in four weeks.

Do you know how I can tell?

I've started commenting on blogs posts at ESPN's NFC West Blog. (I have no illusions that anyone who reads this entry will click on that link. Please, don't prove me wrong.)

A few points of order:

Yes, I'm aware that what the US calls "football" has no real correlation to what the rest of the world calls "football." Feet rarely touch the ball during the US game, except at very specific times (extra points, field goals, and giving the ball to the other team after any number of criteria are met). Plus, well, as George Will famously put it: "Football combines the two worst things about America: it is violence punctuated by committee meetings." (Mr. Will famously loves baseball, so I'm sure that colors his perceptions a bit; he also editorializes for Newsweek, the Washington Post, and other periodicals as the "sensible conservative voice" on issues, so I'll reject his opinion with a jerk of the knee on that basis alone.)

Now, picture the stereotypical football fan. Good ahead, it won't hurt you. Got it? Let me guess what you pictured: either a balding, middle-aged, over-weight redneck double-fisting Coors Light or an early to mid-twenties, shaven-headed douchebag with blasted pecs double-fisting Jägerbombs (or whatever cheap-ass watered-down beer it is that douchebags "ironically" drink; MGD? PBR?). These are (stereotypically) whom you would be matching wits with, if you decided to read and comment on sports blogs. Clearly, I hate life.

Finally, my favorite team plays in arguably the weakest of the weak football conferences in the NFL. And, yes, people get passionate about these four teams. Dear God. Let me break them down for you by putting on my "outsider's perspective" cap:

Arizona Cardinals: They are named after a bird that eats seeds. Scared yet? Plus, they have made it to one Super Bowl in the modern football era and lost. To the Pittsburgh Steelers. (Yeah, you've fucking heard of them, haven't you?)
San Francisco 49ers: How the mighty have fallen. Once the team to beat in the 1980s, rabid fans of this team will make you want to chew your arm off in an attempt to get away from them when they start rambling on about their five championship rings. Really? You played for the 49ers in the 80s? What're Joe Montana and Jerry Rice REALLY like?
Seattle Seahawks: They are named after a bird... THAT DOESN'T EXIST. Seriously, the closest analog is the Peregrine Falcon and that's not even native to this area. These guys play ALL THE WAY up in Seattle, Hipster Capitol of the US, where irony is king and pencil fights are an organized team activity. (Full Disclosure Time: They are my favorite team; I watch every game. I embarrass those around me with my passion for these guys. I have been known to yell at the television as though the players can hear me. On occasion I throw things. I have earned my hate.)
St. Louis Rams: Wait, didn't they used to play in Los Angeles? When did they move to Missouri?

Why would I do comment on a sports blog about violent committee meetings, most likely frequented by meatheads, about four teams that are arguably considered a collective joke? Because I like Mike Sando's writing. The beat reporter for this division writes thoughtfully, as impartially as possible, and provides TONS of information on about these teams to his passionate public, often in spreadsheet form. He assumes the most from his regular readers, and, in return, his regular readers become more informed, better educated about the game in general and the division in particular, and rise to his level.

It would shock you, perhaps, to know that we actually talk about the game in (mostly) reasonable tones. Sure, there's the typical "ur team sux mine rox faggot lol" comments. They are actually few and far between. Surprisingly. So, yeah, if you want to know where I went if I become scarce after a while? Go to the blog linked to above.

Mini-Post: 4am

2010-08-07T12:06:00.000-07:00

Go! Go back to the bar.

4am. The sound of an idling vehicle. Something big. Like a truck.

Go! GO NOW!

I crawl out of bed. I can't tolerate the ruckus outside any longer. I sigh, throw on some clothes in the dark, and leave my apartment.

On the street: Cops. EMTs. An ambulance. And three people involved in a sad little dance: two of them, older, maybe mid-forties, flanking a younger, shirtless, shouting man.

The police fill out a report of some kind. A second ambulance drives up, red and white lights flashing a not-so-random pattern. EMTs pull out a gurney.

Do you know this guy?

I turn to the police officer talking to me. "No, sorry."

The EMTs and remaining cops start strapping the young man to the gurney. It takes all of them to do it.

You're not this guy's friend? Do you know what's going on?

I sleepily shake my head, answer the cop again: "No, I'm sorry, I just manage this building."

The cop nods wearily, turns back to the street, starts asking questions of the older couple.

Fuck you! Go back to the bar! The young man strapped to the gurney shouts out, lifts his head, struggles against the straps.

I go back to my apartment.

I Thought About Posting a YouTube Video of Bill Wither's "Ain't No Sunshine," But That Seemed a Little Pathetic, Even For Me.

2010-08-06T15:01:00.000-07:00

I'll miss you, honeybee.

"I'll miss you, too. Call me when you get to New York, okay?"

I will. I love you.

"I love you, too. Have a safe trip"

And, after a hug that warmed me to my core and a kiss that lit the sky, my girlfriend started walking towards security.

And with that, I became a BlogHer Widower.

Don't be alarmed; I haven't completely regressed into a feral beast, scratching my genitals like a howler monkey or lazing about like a lion on the Savannah. In fact, as I type this? I'm completely dressed, and sitting at the table, contemplating my next bold move as regards chores around the building. I've been getting out and about, and have even made plans with a friend to have dinner on Saturday evening. Which, of course, will require me to get dressed (again) and cook some sort of something. (I'm thinking Moroccan-style chicken, if I can make it so that spicy-sensitive palates can tolerate it.)

Plus, why should she have all the fun? I found out about this conference that's going on concurrently for Well-Established Bloggers^TM like myself (HA!) who can't, won't, or shouldn't go to BlogHer. It's called "HomeHer" and, so far, the panels and participants have been awesome. Well, to me, anyway. Then again, I consider myself to be a malcontent and smart-ass on the best of days, so take my suggestions and opinions with a grain of salt, or perhaps a whole pillar.

All of this is designed to keep me busy while she's away. It's working. Kinda.

Hurry home, sweetheart. I miss you.

A Time for War, and A Time for Phone Interviews. Or However That Song Goes.

2010-08-05T16:07:00.000-07:00

It is said that if you know your enemies and know yourself, you will not be imperilled in a hundred battles; if you do not know your enemies but do know yourself, you will win one and lose one; if you do not know your enemies nor yourself, you will be imperilled in every single battle. — Sun Tzu, The Art of War

I didn't expect any casualties but I girded for battle anyway.

I had much to prepare for. I couldn't know my opponent's plans for me; but, I knew my potential courses of action and, of course, their end objective. Information leaked to me on the internet provided valuable intelligence, but was it reliable? I concluded after much research that I had to rely on my own wits to keep myself alive.

The day came. I readied myself mentally. I discussed my plans with friends and loved ones. They wished me well, as those who love and care about you do, but knew that only I could win or lose. I laid out my plans, consulted them, set them aside. I chose my field carefully, and made sure I had everything that I would need at hand. I dressed, with an eye for protection and ease of movement. And then I waited.

I calmed my mind in the ways of the Eastern masters. I focused only on my objective. Only the objective existed for me now. If I lost it, it would not be for lack of effort. I breathed in and out, slowly, deliberately, waiting for the call to battle.

The trumpet sounded.

Hello, is this Mighty Hunter?

"Yes, it is."

Hello, this is [name redacted] from [large eCommerce website].

Shouting my battle cry, wearing my war face, I charged. Whether to easy victory and certain defeat, none could know except the Fates.

So, if you follow me on Twitter or Facebook, you already know the end of this story; regardless, I'll tell you anyway: I didn't get the job that I interviewed for on Tuesday. No for lack of trying, of course.

I will say that it was nice for the interviewer to tell me right then and there that he didn't think that I was a good fit for the position. Saves me from worrying about it for the next 2 to 3 weeks, so that I can focus on looking for work elsewhere. And, it would seem, blogging? Priorities, people, priorities.

Surprising Admission: At One Point in My Life, I Was Painfully Socially Awkward and Shy. Oh Wait, You Were, Too?

2010-08-02T10:49:00.000-07:00

This post headed off in a completely different direction than I thought it would. Please to be enjoying my randomness.

That title up there speaks the truth. After college, when I worked at two sports bars in two years and consequently had very little spending cash (read also: drugs and booze), I retreated into a virtual world. That world had just recently been born; it didn't yet have the fancy graphics and Dolby© 5 channel Surround Sound that we inhabitants of the future associate with our online dwellings. Nope, I still had to use the power of my (drug- and booze-addled) imagination to convert that multi-colored blinking text into...

Well, into an escape. I hated my life and felt powerless to change it. I worked far too long for far too little, and spent what I had on trivial pursuits. I started hating people (and I doubt that there's anyone alive that, having worked in retail or some other customer-facing job, doesn't hate other people just a little bit). I eventually started hating "meat-space" in general (I'm pretty sure I called it that at least once in my early twenties) and would retreat into my MUSHes and MU*s on a basis that might have bordered on obsession. I joked about shaving my head so I could have the eventual neural net grafted to my skull and allow for DIRECT ACCESS to the Interwebs. Of course, I lacked specific knowledge on how this would be accomplished and feasible and JESUS FUCKING CHRIST NOT DANGEROUS but it was a funny thing to say at parties while drunk and stoned. (I also joked about IVs and colostomy bags in connection with the neural net installation, and was surprised by the sympathetic and scared looks I would get from the girls I was talking to. More often then not after this admission, they quite suddenly had to leave to find their boyfriends. I would have sworn they came to that party alone. Weird.)

Since that formative period, I've done a lot of virtual traveling, as it were. I took a lot of time off between stints where I vowed that I would not play anymore and try to get my life back in the real world. I would succeed in some areas, and fail in others. I blamed my social awkwardness; doing this endeared me to some folks and turned off others, but at least I kept honest about that part of my human development.

And then I discovered World of Warcraft. No more text-based adventures for me: I had graphics and sound and hot-keys for actions and MONEY and POWERFUL SKILLS AND SPELLS AND ZOMG I AM AN ALL-POWERFUL BEING FEAR ME MORTALS. I succeeded at this. Yes, I helped my success rate by playing all the time, but I really got good. I wanted to play. Eventually I had to play. And for the same reasons that I played the prehistoric text-based RPGs of my ill-spent (but, admittedly, pretty fun) youth: I needed an escape from what I considered to be a shitty life. Did I consider that this life was of my own making? Eh. Maybe. In fact, most likely. But I didn't change it, because at least I was having fun.

Stopping with the drinking, perhaps unsurprisingly, got me off virtual worlds, too. Seattle offers a lot of fun stuff to see and do (especially this time of year), but I don't see any of it unless I get my ass off the computer and go do that shit. Who cares if I can solo Gnomeregan with my level 40 Holy/Prot spec'd Paladin (especially since I think people can do at level 30)? How about I solo... my real life?

After You Read This Post, You'll be All Caught Up with My Life. Lucky You. Now Get Reading.

2010-07-29T18:08:00.000-07:00

Well, shit. I have done gone and gotten busy. Let's catch up a bit, shall we?

I am still unemployed, but you would never know it. Since, you know, I still manage that apartment building that I live in. It's a wonder I was able to get anything done around the building while I was working elsewhere. Plus, two tenants have decided to selfishly give a month's notice, and no amount of nailing them to their apartment walls with railroad spikes will convince them to stay, so, after I'm done paying off lawyer bills and their medical costs, which they have selfishly saddled me with even after I removed the spikes and allowed them to fall from their walls, I will have to take down the "No Vacancy" sign that I was so proud of last month and start the whole renting process ALL OVER AGAIN OH WOE AM I OH WOE. (Also: run-on sentences are AWESOME. As is passive voice. My Copyeditor's Handbook tells me so.) (That last sentence is a lie.) (Speaking of copyediting...)
I plan on going back to school. Again. Clearly, I either don't like money or long for a simpler life when I was young, drunk and/or stoned, and avoiding classes in favor of drinking and/or smoking weed. (Wait. The weed smoking came after college. I shouldn't lie about that.) (Hi, Dad!) Or maybe, just maybe, I want to actually do something with my life, employment-wise, that I actually like, and I am smart enough (now) to realize that this requires some learning on my part. SO. Back to school.
I plan to enroll in a Technical Writing and Editing certificate program that the University of Washington (Go, you Huskies!) offers every year that starts in the fall. If I'm accepted, I'll be taking six, three-hour-long, senior-level courses, two nights a week, over nine months, so I clearly hate free time in addition to money. I learned in the informational meeting two nights ago that, among other things, this course will help me develop a portfolio, which I hear is important to have when you want to get a job as a writer.
Of course, I must PROVE WORTHY of the program, so I need to write a cover letter, no longer than 250 words, explaining "a) [my] relevant work and volunteer experience, and/or transferable skills and knowledge of the field, and b) how [I] expect the program will help [me] meet [my] professional goals." (I should probably use fewer parentheticals than I have in this post. And perhaps affect a more professional tone.) Plus, that whole "tuition" thing requires money that I really don't have right now, so I've submitted my FAFSA application to be checked over. I also called the Washington State Unemployment Benefits office and asked about how going to school could affect my benefits, and they plan on mailing me a sheaf of paperwork to file out and return. Lots to do for this thing.
My girlfriend has moved in. This? might not be news, since I've left signs and hints on various blog posts, but is still a pretty big fucking deal. Cohabitation is not a thing to be entered into lightly. (As I well know. Now.) We can clearly stand each other enough to want to be in the same 575 sq.ft. area together. Plus, yay! Furniture! Free rent under the barter system! Everyone wins.
I hate my body, and so have started punishing it with regular exercise. I restarted that Couch to 5k thing that was so popular, like, three years ago or something, and will be ending week three tomorrow. As if that wasn't enough, I've added push-ups, sit-ups, and squats to the mix on the off days. If this doesn't seem to be enough, I might nail myself to one of the walls in my apartment with railroad spikes and try to pull the spike out of the wall with my bare hands. (Or, I might just bleed to death up there on the wall. Say something nice at my memorial; try not to mention how moronic it was that I nailed myself to a wall with spikes.) (Where I am getting all of these railroad spikes from, anyway?)
I've got diseases, and the fun is infectious*. I managed to scrape together enough cash to purchase Pandemic from Amazon.com. This board game defies any sort of description that makes it sound AT ALL LIKE FUN, and yet my girlfriend and I are totally and completely addicted. We have our favorite roles to play (not like that), and we have managed to beat the game three times in a row on Novice difficulty. (Regular Pandemic enthusiasts should know how big of a deal that is.) Our first time on Normal difficulty shamed us, but we are not so easily beaten. Also: the creators and manufacturers of Pandemic have released an expansion. I must have it.
I'm watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer: The Series. Clearly, it's the 1990s again. For sure. Seriously, though, this is a fantastic show, and I can't believe I turned my nose up at it when it was actually airing on television. I have favorite characters (Xander, Anya, Spike, Giles); I shout at the screen when any character is doing something I think is stupid; I AM EMOTIONALLY INVESTED, PEOPLE. This never happens with a television show. NEVER. (At least, not a network television show. I was pretty committed to Sunday nights on HBO. That seems so long ago now.)

All of these things have conspired to keep me away from my little, sorely neglected corner of cyberspace. If all goes to plan, I.. well... will still be busy and still be scarce. But at least I'll be more INTERESTING. I hope.

---

* The title of the fifth entry on this list in a reference to an episode of How I Met Your Mother entitled "Slapsgiving 2: Revenge of the Slap." Google it.

This Post Will Amuse You More if You Know What My Girlfriend Does for a Living*

2010-07-22T10:00:00.000-07:00

Her: Cutting it a little close today.
Me: Yeah, we'd better get going so you can make me some money.
What, are you my pimp now?
Well, you do stand on street corners, asking people for money. Which, actually, makes [name of her supervisor] your pimp.
And, actually, I'm a field manager when I'm out in the field, so technically that makes ME the pimp.
[Chuckle] Yes, I suppose that's true.
I like to think that I have a gentler, more empowering style to pimping. Something like: "How many stops did you have today? 'Ten.' And how many blowjobs did you give out? 'One.' Okay, well, sometimes it's hard to get stops this time a day for blowjobs."
"Don't get discouraged. You're very pretty. You'll give out plenty of blowjobs today. Don't give up!"
Which, I have to admit, is a better style than the usual: "Bitch, where's my money? Is [redacted]gonna havta choke a bitch?"
[Laughing] "I don't wanna choke a bitch..."
Yeah. "I don't want to choke a bitch, but I will if I have to."
You should try that sometime, and see if it makes a difference. It seems to work for real pimps.
--------------------
* So that there's no confusion, my girlfriend works (for now) as a canvasser for a third-party canvassing company that raises money for organizations like ACLU, Planned Parenthood, and the ASPCA. She is not a prostitute. Well, not in the sense that you are thinking, anyway.

I'll Start Up Exercising Again, Too. Unemployment Is Good For My Figure.

2010-06-30T13:15:00.000-07:00

Today marks another "last day of work." As such, I notice all the old familiar feelings slowly coming back: "Back on unemployment again? Loser." "How long will you be out of work this time? Six months? A year? Two?" "Whatever, you'll take the first job that comes along so that you can get out of your apartment, whether it's beneath your skill-level or not."

This, of course, prompts an equal and opposite reaction in my brain: "The job market is picking up again! You know it is! You applied for six jobs in one day! That's awesome!" "You'll be out of work for a while, sure, but unemployment is better than nothing. Plus, your job is applying for work and you'll have plenty to do around the building, too. You'll be busy enough." "Don't settle too much, but don't just throw a good job away, especially if you'll be working directly for them. Benefits count for something."

Which set of data is correct? Or, I guess, more correct? Does it matter?

My stress doesn't consume me. Yet. It might never get a chance to do so. I've been through this three times in as many years. I guess you could say that the experience has battle-hardened me. I guess we'll see.

Trust Me: Sober Me, While Still Kind Of a Dick, Isn't Nearly as Much of a Dick as Drunk Me.

2010-06-29T12:37:00.000-07:00

Boxing Day, 2009:

I woke up at first at around 5:30am. Both of my legs had cramped up and I needed to walk the pain out, try to loosen the death grip my calf and foot muscles held over my lower body. I half-stumbled, half-stiffly-marched to the kitchen, grimacing and grunting from the pain in my legs and my head. I drank a glass of water while on the march, pacing around my practically empty apartment, yelping with each step.

I dehydrated myself the night before. Christmas. I had hated the entire day, save for 30 minutes that morning when I opened gifts from my family on the east coast and another 20 minutes right afterward when I called my father and step-mother to thank them and wish them well. I managed to "complete Christmas" in less than an hour. That realization (as untrue as it was) hit me hard and fast, a fully-loaded semi of self-loathing and bitterness. I stewed in this thought for about 10 minutes, then wandered to the kitchen make breakfast: fried eggs over-medium, toast, and absinthe. Oh, and also my bitter, bitter heart.

Yes, I can joke a bit about this now.

I kept drinking the absinthe until about 2pm that day, when I decided to leave (early) for a Christmas party being held on the other side of my neighborhood. I'm pretty sure I showered. I know I dressed pretty well for being half in the bag. (What? I waited until about noon EST.) I went to this thing and... well... made a complete ass of myself. At one point in the evening, I called someone my ex's name. I got back to my apartment and inexplicably threw my cellphone across the room, breaking it in half. I made to stab myself in the chest with a large knife, then put the knife down, stripped out of my clothes, and passed out.

Drinking water helped with the cramps. Eating a banana helped a bit more. I hobbled back to my futon and passed out again, not waking up unto closer to 9am.

My head throbbed in time with my pulse. I rolled out of bed, quite literally, and stumbled to the kitchen, where I microwaved a potato. I staggered back to the couch (the only piece of living room furniture that I owned at the time), and sullenly chewed the nuked potato, loaded with butter and sour cream. I might have dozed there for another two hours. I certainly didn't more from that spot for another two hours.

That day, I consciously decided that I didn't want to drink anymore.

And so, I haven't.

I've stayed dry for six months and three days (as of this writing); it's a drop in the bucket compared to others that I admire in that regard, but still something to be moderately proud of. In that time, I have... changed immensely, let's say. Mostly for the better. Mentally, I focus more on what's really important, I stay motivated and present, and I try harder to be larger and more important in other people's lives by being there for them. I do what needs to be done, instead of hiding away in a bottle somewhere.

I'm going to be honest with myself, though I need to admit that I sometimes miss drinking. But I know myself well enough to know that I can't. Not right now, most likely not ever. At least three different, unrelated folks have told me that I'm a complete bastard when I'm drunk, and I got to a point that the whole point of drinking was to get drunk.

That mindset still exists within me, I think.

So I stay safe, and don't drink. And won't drink. And hope to make another six months. Or more.

Mini-Post: No Vacancy

2010-06-26T09:42:00.000-07:00

That's a beautiful thing.

My Dream Job Would Probably Involve... Actually, Let's Save That For A Post That No Kiddies Might Read, Shall We? Good.

2010-06-24T00:00:00.000-07:00

I'm starting to get anxious.

I interviewed for a great job on Friday, a job that's essentially the same as my 40-hour-a-week job (which is completely different from my 24-hour-a-day job, which is to say, my apartment manager job; I digress). What's more, it's with, and through, the Port of Seattle (where I essentially work now, which is a bonus), which also means that if I get this job, I'll be out of the "Oh-shit-my-contract-is-ending-better-find-a-job-before-I-need-to-go-on-unemployment" cycle. It's a great opportunity, and I jumped at the chance.

I told my de facto boss about my interest, and he said that he would drop a quick line to a contact he has in HR and also to the person I'd be reporting to, should I get the job. Two weeks later I received a phone call about scheduling for an interview, which I did for last Friday at 7:30am. My de facto boss coached me on what to expect from the interview, going so far as to tell me a little about the people who might be in the room (at one point, he warned me that one of the interviewers might not look like a woman, but was in fact female, so I should be careful with pronoun use when talking to this person).

I felt I did well at the interview. I presented myself well, being both professional and laid-back. I answered the questions they (there were six interviewers) asked me truthfully but diplomatically. I chatted; I presented myself as a real human being with flaws, but more than enough merits to counterbalance those flaws. I felt confident.

But now? The waiting. My de facto boss on site at the Port told me that it can take up to a week to hear an answer, and it's been almost that long. I'm being to worry a bit. I want this job; it's not my dream job, per se, but it's something I can do, and do well, and will hold my interest and keep me in the game until I'm ready to look for another job.

I want to know. I'm ready.

Of Course, Doing The Following Pretty Much Ensures That You Won't Get Your Security Deposit Back. Self-Fulfilling Prophesies ALWAYS Come True. Or So They Say.

2010-06-22T00:00:00.000-07:00

Let's say you, a vibrant young person, have decided to move out of your current digs into a new place. Perhaps you have found a special someone with whom you finally feel comfortable sharing a space. Maybe you've outgrown that old studio you lived in for one or two years. Or, you know, you've decided that the rent at your old place is too expensive and you want to save money. Regardless, you want a change and you've moving out.

You give notice. You tell the resident manager that you'll vacate on a certain date. Say, June 19th. The manager gives you some instructions, asks for a few details about leaving keys behind, specifies how he wants the unit to look when you vacate, all that stuff. Whatever. Totally doable.

Partway through your move responsibilities, you realize that you have a lot of stuff. I mean, A LOT. How did you manage to get all of this stuff into your tiny studio? It amazes you, really. Faced with choices between moving it all to your new place, carting what you don't want to Goodwill or a local second hand store, or leaving some of it by the dumpsters outside and the rest of it in your apartment, you decide that the last choice is probably the best one for you.

After, it really is a lot of stuff. You ran out of boxes hours ago, say. Maybe you ran out of time, and the moving truck had to be back right before dinner. Or, and this might be pretty unlikely, but perhaps you really don't that you'll get your security deposit back anyway. No one ever does, so why bother cleaning up too much, and moving a bunch of stuff that you really don't want and probably won't use anyway. It's the best choice to just leave all of your cooking utensils, plates, pots and pans, plastic bags, silverware, VHS tapes, old books, book shelf, chest of drawers, pile of change, clothes hangers, toaster, coffee maker, cleaning supplies, and a fluorescent green tank top behind. For example.

Someone else will take care of that for you.

Related: I love cleaning up other people's messes. (No, I don't; I just lied there.)

Therapy. Again. Ya'll Are Going To Think That I'm Psychically Damaged. Or That I'm Really Dexter Morgan In Disguise. (I'm Not.) (Really.)

2010-06-11T10:30:00.000-07:00

I'm pretty much in the process of breaking up with my therapist. Being an intuitive and empathetic sort, she can see it coming. Damn her for being good at her job.

My impending break-up with my therapist does not mean that I no longer think that I need talk therapy. Indeed, I have plenty of evidence to the contrary. I don't feel the need to list all of that shit out; anyone interested should feel free to look through my archives.

So, why the break-up? Well, I feel a little not-so-awesome admitting this, but, with the latest contract ending at the end of the month, and with therapy being a pretty big expense monthly (even at the discounted rate that she and I agreed upon), I can't really afford to be potentially unemployed again and continue to go to therapy. Now, yes, I've gone to therapy before while I looked for work, and I looked forward to therapy as a chance to interact with others and get some pretty important shit out of my head. I have to admit that the monetary drain on my Unemployment-Benefits-collecting ass chapped a little bit, even though I employed other measures in an effort to save money elsewhere. I scrapped to get by, and, while not doing everything that I could, I tried to do as much as possible.

...

Okay so I have another reason, too. And, I don't feel great about this one, but here we go, anyway: I... can't put my finger on it, really, but I no longer really like going to therapy. I doubt it has much to do with my emotional development (whatever that means) and more do to with what my therapist has called "a shift in our relationship." I no longer feel... I don't know. I clam up in sessions. I don't lie, but I don't really talk either. I've been talking about a power dynamic that I want in my life (and that I might not be employing as much as I should), and let my therapist in on that one day.

And then, one session not too long ago, she asked me a question about something that I said earlier that visit, something that I no longer remember. Her question caught me off-guard. In a big, big way. And, I'm not proud to admit, put me off. In a big, big way. It angered me, though I don't know why. And... an unpleasant image involving she and I sprang to mind.

I stayed silent for a moment, my face... expressively trying to remain an expressionless mask. Which, of course, my therapist noticed. She asked about what was going on. And I told her.

And we talked about that. She tried to re-assure me, and tried to re-assure me until my most recent session, in fact, that it took a lot of courage to tell her that. That she wasn't put off, or scared, or anything like that. That we could TALK about that, if we needed to.

She said all the right things. I imagine it has a lot to do with her training. Still, I suppose if my mental images didn't scare her, they sure as hell scared me. And so, I found that I couldn't open up as much as I used to. My most recent session consisted of approximately 35 minutes of silence, 5 minutes of yelling and cajoling, and 10 minutes of quiet re-assurance.

My therapist and I work well together. I don't want our relationship to end. It shouldn't end, really; I still have shit to do, and I don't want to necessarily start over with a new therapist. I need to get over a few things, though. One will be easier than the other.

In Other News: I changed my layout a bit. Here's where I lead you to believe that I DIRECTLY manipulated the CSS with my amazing HTML skills. And here's where you believe me without a HINT OF SARCASM.

Perhaps They'll Let Me Sing Mississippi Queen At The Audition. One Can Only Hope; I Nail That One, Ya'll.

2010-06-04T13:55:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's weird, but performing karaoke makes me remember how much I love all that music stuff I used to do.

Okay, so let's back up. Yes, I'm singing karaoke. Pretty much every week at a local pub at the end of my street.

I'll wait for you to stop laughing.

...

Okay, so I'll just continue on and hope that you stop laughing eventually.

Seriously, though, singing karaoke brings back all sorts of pleasant memories from when I used to perform. Now, I don't imagine myself back in high school or college singing my little teen-aged heart out. I have a great deal of fun, though, despite the fact that I never drink, thus proving wrong one person that told me that karaoke is only fun for that brief 45 minute period between tipsy and drunk. I often get to hear really great renditions of songs, which can often force me to "up my game," as it were.

(Sadly, I also get to hear really AWFUL renditions of songs just as often. I assume that the vast majority of these songs are sung by people who, I also assume, could not carry a tune in a bucket with a lid on it while sober, let alone however inebriated they are when they sing their poignantly personal version of "Killing Me Softly" or "Folsom Prison Blues." How you can even HAVE a poignantly personal version of "Folsom Prison Blues" honestly scares me a little bit, dude.)

What with all the karaoke singing, and with a little urging and encouragement from my girlfriend, I've decided to bite the bullet, put my money where my mouth, use one more not-so-obscure idiom, and request an audition slot for the Seattle Men's Chorus (formally the Seattle Gay Men's Chorus, I'm told). I have yet to hear back; I hope that there aren't a limited number of audition slots, that those slots didn't fill up already, that they haven't decided that they hate me already, blah blah blah. When I know, you'll know.

You Should Know By Now To Not Take My Shit Seriously. Let's Use This Post As a Test of That Ability.

2010-06-03T13:17:00.000-07:00

UPDATED to add another example of my oh-so-difficult-first-world life.

My life is hard. Very, very hard. Here's why:

The electricity in my kitchen kept going out while we were trying to use the toaster oven and the coffee maker at the same time.
I live rent-free in my apartment, in exchange for doing maintenance around the apartment building.
I have to get up at 5:30am every day during the week so I can get to work on time using public transportation.
I still don't own a smart phone.
Today, my bus was three minutes earlier than usual getting to the transit tunnel, but I still missed my train by about 30 seconds, so I had to wait about 5 extra minutes for another train.
We ran out of Blue Agave Sweetener, and thus had nothing with which to sweeten my morning coffee. Luckily, we were able to get to the store today and purchase Stevia sweetener.

I await your sympathy.

Attention, Tenants! After July, No One Is Allowed to Move For At Least Three Months. Thank You.

2010-05-27T11:27:00.000-07:00

So, remember when I was freaking out a little bit about having four open units in my building? That's no longer the case. June is, apparently, the month to move.

Since I wrote that last post, I have done the following with regards to apartment renting:

Set up tens of viewings.
Gone on vacation.
Gotten notice that another tenant will be vacating in July. (WHAT THE HELL, PEOPLE?)
Returned from vacation
Taken the credit for the two people that my girlfriend successfully rented units to. (Thanks, dear.)
Set up blinds and carpet cleaning for two (different) open units.
Gotten keys back from two of the folks vacating their units this month.

Still lots more to do, but, you know, Rome wasn't built in a day or some shit.

Mini-Post: Vacation, and I suck at testimonials.

2010-05-16T08:54:00.000-07:00

Thing, the first: I'm going on vacation this week. Like, I am totally sitting in the airport RIGHT FUCKING NOW typing this on my NEW-TO-ME laptop, eating an over-priced bagel/egg/cheese sandwich thing that totally sucks, waiting to go on my vacation. It's pretty awesome. Not the bagel sandwich thing, since, as I've mentioned, that totally sucks, but the vacation. A whole week in Orlando, FL, with my family. Oddly, I am taking my camera, so I might even take pictures. I'm sure the 10s to dozens of readers that I have are anxiously awaiting that. So, never one to disappoint, I'll be taking pictures. Right. You asked for it.

Thing, the second: Speaking of never being one to disappoint, I promised Tracy of Kaply, Inc. that I would write a testimonial for Grant's birthday. Which was yesterday, and which I completely spaced on. So much for honesty and clean dealings. I shall go flog myself in the airport bathroom as penance. Or something.

Grant, your gift from me is me flogging myself in the airport bathroom, crying like a little girl. I must really like you or something.

Also, For The Record, I Do Not Hate Pizza. Those Are All Vicious Rumors.

2010-05-10T13:41:00.000-07:00

You take a hiatus from writing for longer than a day and, suddenly, it seems excruciatingly hard to write. About anything.

Do not take this to mean that I have nothing to say, because that's a lie. For instance:

I assume that no news means good news concerning the Massive Apartment Building Clean-Up of Two Weekends Prior. Both the building owners and the property manager have been to the building at least once and had a chance to see my and my girlfriend's handiwork. I will take their lack of response as a silent, "Good work. Now, keep it up." I start in earnest with my new weekly, self-imposed clean-up schedule. Exceptionally stimulating updates on this topic will follow; believe it.
With good comes.... drama. One of my vacating tenants... well... you know what? I'll blog about that one. Too much went on that night to be summed up in a single bullet point.
Speaking of vacating tenants: I filled the unit in my building that has been vacant since last November (yay!), only to get notice on three apartments (boo!). Many, many folks have expressed interest though, and I have three showings scheduled so far in the next two days.
My girlfriend came to visit me this weekend. This makes eight weekends in a row where we have seen each other and SPENT THE NIGHT TOGETHER. She must really like me. Or something. Either that, or the sleep hypnosis has taken hold much more quickly than I thought possible. Exceptionally stimulating updates on this topic will also follow.
Apparently it's Grant's birthday soon or something
Someone at the office has non-ironically loaded "Who Let The Dogs Out" on their personal cellphone. I have no words for the conflicting emotions of derision, hate, and cynical sadness that are swirling about in my head right now. Don't worry, I'll get over it.

And... now you're caught up. Regular service will resume anon.

UPDATE: My girlfriend has kindly and politely informed me that we have spent four consecutive, and six total, weekends together. We apologize for the error.

And, You Know, Leaving Rent-Free Is Pretty Sweet. I'd Rather Not Kick That Away Like A Piece of Garbage on the Street.

2010-04-28T13:06:00.000-07:00

I just got off the phone with the property manager for the building that I maintain. It seemed important to call her back as quickly as possible, since her message said, in part, "Give me a call back on my lunch break, or maybe after work." Okay, but, hm. I... should call you now.

So I called. Mainly, we talked about the cleanliness of the building. At one point, she said the following, "I know you're working Monday through Friday until... 5:00? I mean, is this still something that you want to do?"

Well, shit.

First, yes, I still want to manage the building. Not only because the (admittedly short-term) contract job that I'm working will most likely end on the last week of June, but also because I would probably fail any credit check that I tried to submitted at this point, and also also because I'm not sure I can live in even a studio on what I could possibly make in the job market, let alone unemployment.

I believe I'm confusing the word "want" in that paragraph with the word "need." Oops.

Regardless, continuing my apartment management duties satisfies both practical and personal concerns. I'm proving to myself that I can do things that require discipline. It doesn't take nearly as long to clean the building if I don't try to do everything all in one day. I like the feeling of accomplishment when I finish working in the building. Full disclosure: I also like the praise that I sometimes get when someone who lives in the building sees me working there. It's not the sole reason I do it, of course, but I'm not going to lie and say that it's not a reason for doing it.

Motivation, or rather, lack of motivation haunts me around this responsibility. I'd rather... do just about anything some days then clean around the building, except cook (so, yes, if my sole choices on any given lazy day were to clean around the building or cook dinner, I'd probably just call out for dinner and read, which is irresponsible at best and just plan wasteful at worst; also, I've just noticed that this parenthetical digression is, at this point, longer than the paragraph in which it is contained, and I must say I'm proud of that, but if you've heard me talk, you'll know that this is not necessarily a surprising development). Clearly, I've had far too many of those days in a row, and now the building's owner and my property manager have taken notice.

Another me would have all sorts of excuses: "I can't police the outside of the building all the time." "I told you about the graffiti months ago, and you don't think it needed to be taken care of, since it was fading already." "I've only just recently returned from safari in Darkest Africa and am settling back into my work-a-day life." Except for that last, at least interestingly phrased, one, those excuses would do nothing to further my cause. Or my employment as a apartment manager, which is something that I'd like very much to continue.

All is not lost! I believe I have been given a last and final chance to redeem myself. I have a laundry list of things to do, and they should be done by next week. My girlfriend (surprise! more on this later, perhaps) is coming in from out of town and has GRACIOUSLY offered to help with the stuff and things around the apartment building. And I'm actually taking her up on it. I hope to do a little tonight, and then a little tomorrow and Friday and then we shall see where we are at this point.

There really is nothing like fear to motivate someone, is there?

Mini-Post: Body, Mind, and Heart

2010-04-27T13:01:00.000-07:00

Remember when I was running three days a week?

My body doesn't anymore. Time to get back up on that horse.

Remember when I was blogging at least three days a week?

My brain doesn't anymore. Time to get back up on that horse, too.

Remember when I was a miserable little shit? Reveling in my pain?

My heart doesn't anymore. Let's shoot that fucking horse in the face, man.

A Year In Review

2010-04-16T11:30:00.000-07:00

It's been... a year.

Good God, really? I've been blogging for a year? And just about everyone that's started off with me has stayed. Which is a minor miracle in and of itself.

[Aside: "In and of itself" is one of the weirdest clichés I've ever written, or heard. And I hear it everywhere. What does it even really mean? I need more work to do I think.]

So I thought that an appropriate way to "celebrate" my perseverance at writing at this here space is the ever-popular "Best of the Previous Year" post. It's an excellent way to see snippets of a life I once led, gives you insights into my personality, and potentially increase the number of page views here on my site, which, if I was monetizing my blog, which I am not, would be extremely important.

Without further ado:

April: I've Almost Dumped All The Sand Out Of It [A humorous look at what happens when you don't chew your food, under a title that has nothing to do with the entry at all, and was probably inspired by listening to too much Portishead and masturbation.]
May: This Little Piggy Killed Hundreds of People in a Pandemic and Cried "Wee, Wee, Wee" All the Way Home [People are absolutely convinced that I cave to peer pressure ALL THE TIME. This post (apparently written while the world was gripped with fear during the Great Swine Flu Outbreak of 2009) is a illustration of a conversation about that very thing.]
June: Maybe I'll Have Expensive Taste One Day, Too [I muse about how my life might have been different if I had been raised in my father's home, instead of my mother's.]
July: I Would Have Finished This Post Last Week, But I Was Interrupted By A Phone Call To Go Have Coffee. It Would Have Been Much Different Then. [Two very different takes on how I was feeling about my up-coming apartment manager gig. Makes me sound unstable. You'll enjoy it.]
August: Me Vs. Me; Or: This Post Didn't Turn Out How I Though It Would. [Continuing on the MPD vein, this post clearly illustrates how the Little Hater talks to me, and how I started talking back. Little Hater is in the parentheticals.]
September: Every Title I Try To Type Cheapens This Post. Just Go Read. [A dear friend and I catch up after too, too long, and she has important news.]
October: My Brief Foray Into Married Life. Part of a Continuing Series. [Part one of a three part series talking about my now-defunct marriage. Oddly enough, written in the month that I would have been celebrating our anniversary.]
November: The Upside Of All This Is That I Can Skip My Morning Run Mostly Guilt-Free [A hilarious look at the trials and tribulations in getting to an audition on my first car-free day. Also: I didn't get cast.]
December: Conversation at the YMCA [I chat up a receptionist about karate classes.]
January: I Was Really Going To Talk More About Class In General. But Then The Writer In Me Took Over. [I talk about falling down safely, and it turns into an extended metaphor.]
February: Inspired by True Events. ['Nuff said.]
March: Three Rune Spread II [I consult the runes and post the results.]

There you are. The best of last year. Here's to another year, hopefully even better than the last.

Meme-day:* 100 Places To See Before You Die

2010-04-12T12:29:00.000-07:00

Brought to you by Dave2 from Blogography. I have bold-italicized the places I've visited. I clearly have a little bit of travel to do.

Pyramids of Egypt
Chichen Itza
Pompeii
Mont St Michel
Great Wall of China
Petra
Kashmir Valley
Topkapi Palace
Taj Mahal
Nile River Cruise
Prague Old Town
Carnival in Rio
Serengeti Migration
Easter Island
Golden Temple
Stonehenge
Galapagos Islands
Cappadocia
Amalfi Drive
Angel Falls
Grand Canyon
Colosseum of Rome
Meenakshi
Yellowstone National Park
Machu Picchu
Fjords of Norway
Chartres Cathedral
Santorini
Antarctica Cruise
St. Peter’s Basilica
Mezquita Cordoba
Matterhorn
Iguazu Falls
Egyptian Museum
Damascus Old City
New York Skyline
Bali
Borobudur
Dubrovnik
Marrakesh
Amazon Rain Forest
Valley of the Kings
Uffizi Gallery
Eiffel Tower
Ngorongoro Crater
Hong Kong
Rio Panoramic View
Ladakh
Great Barrier Reef
Sistine Chapel
Golden Pavilion
Niagara Falls
Angkor Wat
Burj Khalifa
Delphi
British Museum
Victoria Falls
Alhambra
St. Basil’s Cathedral
Burj al Arab
Forbidden City
Louvre Museum
Abu Simbel
Yangtze River Cruise
Bagan
Canals of Venice
St Mark’s Basilica
Yosemite
Karnak
Versailles
Florence Cityscape
Ayers Rock
Teotihuacan
Carlsbad Caverns
Kremlin
Hermitage Museum
Banaue Rice Terraces
Mecca
Varanasi/Ganges
Chambord Chateau
Bora Bora
Kathmandu Valley
Li River Cruise
Lijiang/Shangri La
Acropolis
Metropolitan Museum of Art
Shwedagon Stupa
Neuschwanstein Castle
Potala Palace
Mt Everest
Sahara Desert
Banff National Park
Jerusalem Old City
Temple of the Emerald Buddha
Leaning Tower Pisa
San Francisco
TerraCotta Warriors
Hagia Sofia
Baalbek
Portofino

Aside: I note the lack of German landmarks with disdain.

*Meme-day is not a regular thing. It's just a clever name. Any day can, and most likely will, be Meme-day.

I Would Absolutely Send This Email Back In Time If I Could.

2010-04-07T08:47:00.000-07:00

I just received an email from Past Me. I'm reprinting it here in its entirety.

Dear FutureMe,

Don't forget about her. Don't forget that you loved her. If you haven't yet, you should give her a call and catch up. You won't regret it; she might even be looking forward to it.

I have composed an email in response.

Dear PastMe,

No doubt you thought this was a good idea about a year ago. If things had turned out a little differently, perhaps it might even still be a good idea. But as the poet said, "Life is what happens when you are busy making other plans."

Because, see, here it is. You will be a year older and wiser than when you sent me this message. A lot of things will happen: you will meet new people, you will get involved in other activities, you will go a little crazy and get a little better. I'm not going to give you anything more specific than that, because that would be telling, and, anyway, it would be better for you to go into the future knowing as little as possible. Just know that you will be very different then the version of me that just sent me this email.

Yes, I still remember her, and that I loved her. Those memories are firmly embedded and aren't going anywhere any time soon. But, I'm not going to call her and catch up. You'll understand why when you get here.

You are doing the best that you know how. You will get through it; I'm proof of that.

I do have a suggestion, though. Maybe don't drink so much for a while.

Your Friend,
Future Mighty Hunter

Wouldn't Be Great If This Shit ACTUALLY HAPPENED? We Could Eliminate Bad Sex IN OUR LIFETIME, PEOPLE.

2010-04-05T20:30:00.000-07:00

The phone rings. It's a number I don't recognize but I answer anyway.

Customer Service Rep: Hello, am I speaking with a Mr. Mighty Hunter?
Me: Yes, I'm Mighty Hunter.
CSR: Hello, Mr. Hunter. We understand that you have recently had a sexual experience with [name redacted]. Do you have time to participate a brief survey about the event?
Me: [astounded] Are you serious?
CSR: Yes, Mr. Hunter, I'm quite serious. This survey should only take a few moments of your time, and would go a long way towards improving the service and quality of our product.
Me: Um, sure, I'd love to.
CSR: Thank you, Mr. Hunter. First, let me remind you that this call may be monitored or recorded for training purposes. Please verify your identity by confirming the date of birth that we have on file for you.
Me: [redacted]
CSR: Thank you. And your address?
Me: [redacted]
CSR: Thank you, Mr. Hunter. Let's begin.
Me: Okay. I'm ready.
CSR: [obviously reading] Thank you for agreeing to take this brief survey concerning your recent sexual experience with [name redacted]. You will be asked a series of general questions about different aspects of your recent sexual experience, and to provide a rating on each of those aspects. This survey uses a five point rating system, with one being the lowest point on the scale, and five being the highest. Do you understand the purpose of this survey, and how each question will be presented to you?
Me: Yes.
CSR: First question: How friendly was [name redacted]?
Me: Very.
CSR: Sir, please restrict your answers to the numbers between one and five, one being the lowest, and five being the highest.
Me: RIGHT! Sorry. Four.
CSR: Thank you. How clean was [name redacted]?
Me: Five.
CSR: How accommodating was [name redacted]?
Me: Five.
CSR: Please rate her attention to detail.
Me: Like, you mean, when she was...
CSR: Sir, I must remind you to restrict your comments to...
Me: Sorry, sorry, right, right, right. Very. I mean, four.
CSR: Thank you. Please rate her enthusiasm.
Me: Between one and five?
CSR: Yes, sir.
Me: That's it?
CSR: Sir, I will not ask you again.
Me: Five. It was five.
CSR: Thank you. sir. Please rate her overall presentation.
Me: Four.
CSR: Please rate her overall performance.
Me: Four. Wait, um, four and a half?
CSR: That's an acceptable answer, sir.
Me: Excellent. Four and a half, then.
CSR: Overall, how satisfied were you with your sexual experience?
Me: Wait, is this a different question?
CSR: I don't write the questions, sir, I just administer the survey.
Me: Fine. Four and a half. Again.
CSR: Was there any particular element missing from your experience that you'd like to see incorporated in any future experiences? Please be as detailed as possible.
Me: ...
CSR: Sir, please keep in mind at all answers are anonymous and confidential.
Me: Maybe... food? Like chocolate sauce, or butterscotch, or something?
CSR: [typing, then] Anything else?
Me: ... Um, no? I don't think so.
CSR: Do you desire to repeat this experience in the future?
Me: Absolutely.
CSR: Do you have any additional comments to add about your experience before we conclude this survey?
Me: No, I think that about covers it.
CSR: [obviously reading] Thank you for taking the time to participate in this brief survey about your recent sexual experience. Your answers will help us to improve future experiences. Have a great day.
Me: No, no, thank you.

Musical Interlude: Easter Edition

2010-04-04T19:25:00.000-07:00

Quite possibly the best song for the season ever written:

Happy Easter.

Paging Dr. Jung. Who Would Most Likely Blather On About Something Or Another That I Wouldn't Understand.

2010-04-01T10:36:00.000-07:00

We are sitting in her car, my ex and I. It's a beautiful car: sporty, classic, the kinds I've always loved. I never even knew she had a car like this. She must keep it hidden somewhere.

We talk about inconsequential things. Things that friends would talk about, most likely. The specifics don't matter, and aren't worth remembering anyway.

We lean in together and kiss. As friends or former lovers would. Oddly, none of the old memories come flooding back. It's just us, in this car, kissing.

We stop eventually, and I look out the rear windshield. Someone is blocking the driveway to my parent's house. Sighing, I turn back to her. "Wait here. I'll be back."

I get out and walk to the car blocking my parent's driveway. The driver is rapping at the door to the house, but, when she sees me, she stops and comes over to me. We chat. She apparently needs to use WiFi and was told that my parent's house had some available. She's been on the road of a while and needs to do something important online.

I look at her like she's escaped from the looney bin. She seems earnest and not-so-crazy-in-a-non-functional-way, though, so I calmly explain, that, yes, my parents have WiFi, but they aren't home right now. Maybe she should try back later? This does not sit well with her at all, but there's little she can do. I admire her classic muscle car (even though the name plate proclaims it to be a Duster), advise her to move it out of my parents driveway ("We wouldn't want it to get hurt, okay?"), and then turn and head back to my ex's car.

My ex has since fully reclined in the drivers seat, like she was taking a nap. I get back in the car. I tell her what happened and we laugh about it a bit. Then, it's time to go to my grandmother's house. Luckily we won't be late, as it's just at the end of the block. She turns on the car and, from her fully reclined position, stomps on the gas. I grab the steering wheel as we take off and guide the the quickly accelerating car down the street. We drive as if we are one person, so we must do this all the time.

A busy street separates us from my grandmother's driveway. I don't ask her to slow down; she likely wouldn't anyway. We cross the street at full speed, dodging on-coming cars, and screech to a halt, safe and sound in my grandmother's driveway. We look at each other, laughing...

I wake up and look at the clock. It's 4:49am. I start; am I late? Did I miss my alarm?

Of course not, it doesn't go off for another 40 minutes or so.

Today's Earworm:

Womenfolk Are Crafty and Logical, Part I: Why We Shouldn't Eat Brains

2010-03-29T11:19:00.000-07:00

Amber: So, one thing that's good about having gotten up at 6 is that I've already had two cups of coffee and I am GOOD. TO. GO.
me: RAWK
Amber: I mean, like, do you need me to move some furniture or lift a car or perhaps pull a plow? Because I CAN DO THAT.
me: Strong like bull.
Amber: omg. I was just about to say strong like bull.
me: ZOMG
Amber: GET OUT OF MY BRAINS
me: Tasty tasty brains. Braaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaains.
Amber: I neeeds them!
me: OMNOMOMNOMNOMNOM
Amber: Dammit! I am nothing without them!
me: I GAIN YOUR POWER BY EATING YOUR BRAINS. THE POWER. THE POOOOOOOWERRRRRRRRRRRR.
Amber: That's if you eat my heart, silly.
me: AND BRAINS. Both, really. Okay, so I just want to eat your brains because they are tasty.
Amber: How would you know? For all you know they could taste like library paste.
me: Because... I've eaten brains before? DAMN YOU AND YOUR LOGIC.

So, yes, I'm aware that my first post in two weeks plus is a transcript of a part of a longer chat conversation. This was too good to pass up.

Plus, this might have just primed the pump a bit. (NOT LIKE THAT YOU DIRTY MONKEYS.)

At any rate, thanks for sticking with me. Stuff and things have been happening, but that was for me to process. I'm a little better now. Let's go.

Musical Interlude: Self-Empowerment Edition

2010-03-11T11:31:00.000-08:00

"Change is come.
Keep your dignity.
Take the high road.
Take it like a man."

(It's a great song. Seriously.)

Three Rune Spread II

2010-03-09T08:30:00.000-08:00

Overview: Isa [Standstill, Withdrawal, Ice]

The winter of the spiritual life is upon you. You may find yourself ~~living in a shotgun shack~~ entangled in a situation to whose implications you are, in effect, blind. You may feel powerless to do anything except submit, surrender, even sacrifice some long-cherished desire. Be patient, for this is the period of gestation that precedes a re-birth.

Positive accomplishment is unlikely now. There is a freeze on useful activity, all your plans are on hold. You may be experiencing an unaccustomed drain on your energy and wonder why: A chill wind is reaching you over the ice floes of old outmoded habits.

Trying to hold on can result in shallowness of feeling, a sense of being out of touch with life. Seek to discover what it is you are holding onto that perpetuates this condition and let go. Shed, release, cleanse away the old; doing so will bring on the thaw.

Usually Isa requires a sacrifice of the personal, the "I." At such a time, you cannot hope to rely on help or friendly support. And yet there is no reason for anxiety. Submit and be still, for what you are experiencing is not necessarily the result of your actions or habits, but rather arises from conditions about which you can do nothing. What has been full must empty, which has increased must decrease. This is the way of Heaven and Earth. To surrender is to display courage and wisdom.

And yet there is another face to Standstill. Just as winter is a time for going within, drawing Isa can announce a time of restoration and renewal at the deepest level. In your solitude, exercise caution and do not stubbornly persist in attempting to work your will. Remain mindful that the seed of the new is present in the shell of the old, the seed of unrealized potential, the seed of the good. Trust your own process, and watch for signs of spring.
Challenge: Kano [Opening, Fire, Torch]

This is the Rune of Opening and renewed clarity, of dispelling the darkness that has been shrouding some part of your life. You are free now both to receive gifts and to know the joy of non-attached giving.

Kano is the Rune for the morning of activities, for seriousness, clear intent and concentration, all of which are essential at the beginning of any endeavor. One of the thirteen Cycle Runes, the protection offered by Kano is this: The more light you have, the better you can see what is trivial and outmoded in your own conditioning.

In relationships, there can now be a mutual opening up which you may trigger and set in motion through your awareness that the light of understanding is once again available to you both.

Recognize that while on the one hand you are limited and dependent, on the other you exist at the perfect center where the harmonious and beneficent forces of the universe merge and radiate. You are that center.

Simply put, if you have been operating in the dark, there is now enough light to see that the patient on the operating table is yourself.
Action: Jera [Harvest, Fertile Season, One Year]

A Rune of beneficial outcomes, Jera applies to any activity or endeavor to which you are committed. Be aware, however, that no quick results can be expected. A span of time is usually involved; hence the key words "One Year," symbolizing a full cycle before the reaping, the harvest or deliverance.

You have prepared the ground and planted the seed. Now you must cultivate with care. To those whose labor has a long season, a long coming to term, Jera offers encouragement of success. Know that the outcome is in keeping with Providence and continue to persevere.

Remember the old story about the farmer who was so eager to assist his crops that he went out at night and tugged on the new shoots. There is no way to push the river; equally you cannot hasten the harvest. Be mindful that patience is essential for the recognition of your own process which, in its season, leads to the harvest of the self.

Rune Descriptions: The Book of Runes, Ralph H. Blum

Rune Images: Rune Secrets

Let's Give This Stuff A Home Of Its Own, Shall We? That Way, This Blog Can Be About More Important Things. Like My Trouble With Women.

2010-03-08T08:34:00.000-08:00

I've been braining on alcoholism and The Program and things of that ilk a lot, and will continue to do so.

However, I've decided to dedicate online space for that, rather than turn this blog into approximately 50% to 80% about all of that.

Interested in hearing about about my thought-process? Want to chart my journey with me through the wilds of my brain as I continue along this path? Drop me a line at yggdrasilsashATgmailDOTcom.

You Know What? Let's Lighten The Fucking Mood Around Here.

2010-03-04T13:27:00.000-08:00

Delta: Heather wins the day
me: Heather?
Delta: She was ready to kill her class anyway....then one of them found a dead bum at recess......
me: Oh man. What does the teacher's handbook say about that?
Delta: That answer was not in the video
me: A shame, really. There's an opportunity for growth and strength of character in that. Dead from... what, exactly?
Delta: Dying, I'd imagine. I'm not sure she's qualified to perform the autopsy. Pretty sure that's not part of the teachers cert. ;)
me: Again, another missed opportunity. A shame really.
Delta: True. Well, there's only so much they can cram into two years

2010-03-04T12:30:00.000-08:00

I've been reading a copy of 12 Steps and 12 Traditions that I've borrowed from a friend of mine, until I get a copy of The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous, that I will be borrowing from a different friend of mine until I get my own copy. (Yeah, that was moderately convoluted. Onward.)

I've been reading the first step (and its three page explanation and description) for a couple days now. And, of course, as I process those pages, I apply them to me (which I'm probably supposed to do). Before I type out my findings for all to see, though, I should probably say that:

I'm not working the steps, I'm just reading and thinking about them. This is very different, and I imagine that anyone in the program, or that's been through the program, would agree; and
The fact that I'm writing about this in a moderately public forum can realistically be construed as a "LOOK AT ME I'M THE BESTEST SOBER ALCOHOLIC IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD" move. And, yeah, there's probably a little bit of that in there: I like attention (clearly; I'm a blogger and an actor-in-training), and, if you think cynically, this is going to be a great way to get attention for awhile.

Rest assured (in case anyone was truly worried) that I'll be bringing those two things up again and again as I continue to blog about my sobriety and these steps.. (And, yes, I'm probably going to blog about this until I find a sponsor, and maybe even after that. At the very least, it'll be a great way to keep me honest about staying sober.)

So, having said all that, a few thoughts on step one, being: "We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable."

I have a hard time with this one, honestly.

Here's my thought process:

I've never, ever, ever woken up and needed to start the day with alcohol. I've never, ever, ever drunk all day long, every day, regardless of circumstances or place (work, travel, home, out with friends, out alone, etc.). I've never, ever, ever lost my job or house because I drank constantly. I've gone weeks without drinking, and lived to tell the tale.

However.

When I did start drinking, and I was almost always by myself when I did it, it would be hard for me to stop. Which meant I'd be seated at the bar for at least four hours, drinking, on average, one whiskey and coke every 30 to 45 minutes. At my worst, I would find money that didn't really exist use that to get booze. (You know, since that check hadn't cleared yet; or it's day before a bill gets automatically debited from my account, and since my CU will front the remainder and only charge me a $30 fee for the privilege...)

In those instances, I didn't want to stop, and it would often take a concerted effort on my part, or outside pressure from someone else, to get me to stop. (At best, it was just being with someone else; at worst, it was something along the lines of, "Yeah, you've had enough.") I've drunk whole bottles of wine by myself (excepting one glass for the other person). I've closed down bars after arriving at 8pm, then taken the bartender home. (Incidentally, this is a fantastic way to ensure that you don't pay for booze or food at that bar, and, when it ends badly, and it will end badly, that you can never go back to that bar ever again.) I've woken up with a hang-over so horrid that I wanted to kill myself. I've drunk to the point of hysterical crying, and threatening myself and others with physical violence.

I've been told that I'm an ass when I'm drunk. That I drink whatever my mood. That I "drink away the pain." I suppose all of those are true. Does this mean I'm powerless to resist King Alcohol? Is it really the frequency of my drinking that keeps me from being an alcoholic? Or does the intent behind it mean more?

I've stayed sober for extended periods before. It's no great struggle, to be honest. Plus, as I've said before, since I'm on an antidepressant (albeit a mild one) I can't and shouldn't drink for that reason. Still, that just makes me dry, right? Not necessarily sober?

I may have laid out a post above that sounds like I know in which direction I'm headed with all of this, but I really, really don't. On some days, I don't feel like an alcoholic, and on others I do. I tell folks that I am, but I'm never certain if they believe it. I really don't like the uncertainty, but really don't think that I'm capable of deciding either way.

I think my big brainy brain is contributing in large part to my indecision. I can't make myself admit that I'm powerless to resist drinking, because that would be one more flaw to contend with, more ammunition for The Little Hater in my mind. On the other hand, I can resist drinking, and have, and am doing it right now.

For fuck's sake.

I can't sum this up easily, so I'm not going to try. I'm not done with this.

Mantra (with Monkeys)

2010-03-03T09:15:00.000-08:00

We were both dorks.
We both made mistakes.
We're humans, which are retarded monkeys with fancy pants and digital watches.

She did what she did, I did what I did.
It's over.
It has no power over me but what I CHOOSE TO FEED IT.

It has no power over me but what I choose to feed it.
It has no power over me but what I choose to feed it.

Ook ook.

Mini-Post: Ready for the Weekend

2010-02-19T13:12:00.000-08:00

It's a beautiful day. It promises to be an equally beautiful weekend.

The sun shines, birds sing, spirits lift.

I'm slowly making plans for getting out of the apartment and spending time doing... stuff.

I hope, where ever you are, you can do the same.

Great, Now I've Got That Queen Song In My Head. No, Not That One, The One About Bicycles.

2010-02-17T13:55:00.000-08:00

I have a bike for the first time since college.

For the record that's... a while.

Since I no longer have a car and rely on public transportation to get around to places far away (read: work), I felt I needed something to go the middle distance. Across the neighborhood to a friend's house, say, or to the local grocery or hardware store.

What? I sometimes go to the hardware store. Seriously. I'm handy!

Anyway.

A friend had a bike that he hadn't used in a while, and didn't plan on using any time soon. I wanted one. It was a match made in heaven. Money was exchanged, the bike was tuned up, and I was ready to roll.

So far, since I've bought the bike, I've ridden it to and from the Light Rail train station downtown (which is where I pick up the train to go to work). The "to" ride is great, since it's mostly downhill and there's very little traffic.

The "from" trip, as you can imagine, is much the opposite. As in: much more traffic and mostly uphill. I made it, though. With much swearing and zigzagging in traffic. (Yeah, I guess I'm one of those bikers, now. Sorry, everyone!)

It's a good thing I made it relatively unscathed, since I'll be making this my weekly routine. And adding longer trips as I get more in shape.

God help me.

Stuff That Makes Me Smile, No Matter How Many Times I Think About It (Not A Complete List)

2010-02-16T10:47:00.000-08:00

Naked invisible volleyball
Every single first kiss ever
XTC's "The Ballad of Peter Pumpkinhead"
Sledding down that sharply-graded hill in my old childhood neighborhood on a piece of plastic
Baking cookies for a friend's birthday
Walking hand-in-hand down Broadway
Making babies laugh
Kart Racing
Lunches spent playing Halo
Arnie the Pool-Sweep
Abby, Brandy, Charlie, Sunny, and now, Nova
Reading a poem that I knew was about me (because the author told me it was)
Singing "I'm Biding My Time" for an elementary school program
Being sung to in bed
My first time riding The Sooper Dooper Looper
Laughing hysterically during auditions

What makes you smile, no matter how many times you think about it?

(And, yes, Grant, you can say "bunnies" if you like.)

This Has Been A Long Time Coming, and It's a Relief to Finally Say It. Now? The Hard Stuff.

2010-02-15T13:17:00.000-08:00

Hello.

I'm Mighty Hunter, and I'm an alcoholic.

I've been sober since December 26, 2009.

This has been a difficult realization to come by, but it's something that's been brewing for a while. I can't say that I've hidden it very well; by the same token, whether or not it's been obvious to others is really beside the point.

The point being: I'm tired of using alcohol as a crutch, and an excuse for bad behavior, and a means to escape the troubles in my life. I'm not proud of the person I am when I'm drunk, and I'm tired of feeling guilty for my past actions WHILE I've been drunk.

I'm slowly coming out about it, if you can call announcing my alcoholism on Facebook "slowly coming out about it." Even then, I've received an outpouring of support and well-wishes, for which I am grateful. For what I understand about this process, it's about support, and leaning on others when you need help, and offering help when you see others struggling. In the process of receiving this support, I've found quite a few others (many of whom I was surprised by, quite honestly) who have been through the program, or are in the program, that are willing to help in ways that make my heart glad. To those people, and all the others, I offer my sincere thanks and will absolutely take you up on your offers of assistance.

Please understand that this won't be an easy journey for me, nor should it be. Just because I've admitted my problem doesn't mean I'm done; they call "admitting you have a problem" the First Step for a reason. It's important for me to stay on this path, and make a sincere go at it. I won't backslide. I can't backslide. It's not in my best interest to backslide. I've noticed a change in myself not drinking for 51 days. I rather like it and want to make that change as permanent as possible. And for all the support that I've already received, I'm the one that has to live this "new" life, and stick with it.

One day at a time, as they say. That's as good a place to start as any.

2010-02-14T08:30:00.000-08:00

Valentines Day, they say, is a time to tell the one you love how you feel about them.

Interesting phrasing, that.

Rather than rehash what has most likely been said elsewhere (and at least as eloquently), I'll simply say that I'm not that big a fan, and never really have been. I've gone so far as to wear all black on Valentine's Day IN PROTEST, which really is just a different fashion choice. (Or, if you were like me in college, just another day.) The day means something to many folks, though, and, my personal value judgments aside, I hope they're happy on this day and do something that they love with "the one they love." And good for them.

Here's where I suppose it makes sense to ask, "But what about the rest of us?" And then rail on from there. Because, "the rest of us" means "those people like me without a loved one to call their own on Valentine's Day." "The rest of us" means "the others that are left out."

But you know? Do you need someone to have a lovely Valentine's Day? Must you have a loved one to shower you with attention and whatnot and stuff and things to know that you're loved? Are you really left out if you don't have a date on February 14th?

I submit that you do not, and you don't have to, and you aren't. Because the only person that can love you the truest is you.

I've been slowly (oh, so slowly) coming to this realization. This was a hard sell (and can still be a hard sell at times) for me. I wasn't really all that complete until and unless I had someone backing me up, building me up, telling me that I was good enough. I needed someone else to tell me, because it was the only way I would believe it.

Fuck that noise. I was definitely in a different head-space than I seem to be in now. I can clearly state that, while it's great to get confirmation from independent sources (in this case; it's not like I'm submitting a scientific paper for peer review), I have to be comfortable with me before I can truly believe that anyone else is.

And this is the most comfortable that I've been with myself in a long time. So much so, that I don't care if you know that:

I geek out over... well... just about anything. Pirate folk metal, handbooks on bushido, obscure art films, cult TV shows, frozen custard ice cream sundaes: the list can get pretty long.
Unless you cause me or another loved one physical/emotional/mental pain, I'll be your friend pretty much forever. I've had a hard time proving it with words in the past; I'll be using actions from now on, since those don't send mixed messages. Plus, I've found that I like doing it! Horray!
I'm pushing myself in new directions, and pushing the envelope on those paths that I've already established. You learn to swim in a small pool, but if you never leave it, who cares? I'm starting to realize that I need to get out there a little more each time and try more challenging things: Run a 5k race, take more challenging acting classes, try out for shows at places other than the theater where they know me. Who cares if I don't do as well as I would like? At least I did. Period.

So, I'm trying this out. This whole "self love" thing. It feels important, and might help make me the kind of person that I want to be, and (just maybe) the kind that others might want to be around, too.

Self-Love Day is the brain-child of Hilly of Snackie's World. Feel free to participate if you wish. It'll make you feel good, feel good, feel good...

Musical Interlude: Valentine's Day Weekend Edition

2010-02-12T11:45:00.000-08:00

One of the most beautiful songs ever written:

How it feels when you're a sensitive guy and you fuck up your love life (obviously before you pick yourself up and try again):

I really couldn't resist:

And something a little different:

Enjoy your weekend, lovers of all kinds.

In Other News: I'm following the example of Hilly (of the incomparable Snackie's World fame) and declaring Valentine's Day to be a day of self-love. And, while there will be plenty of that to go around, I'll also be taking the time to blog about myself in a positive way and, in doing so, encouraging you to do the same, whether or not you have a special someone (or someones!) to spend time with.

Now, shoo! Off to your lovely weekend.

Inspired by True Events.

2010-02-11T13:35:00.000-08:00

I've been reminded twice in as many days that my ex (it would seem) is over me and has quite decisively moved on. It hasn't been overt and, really, has nothing to do with me. Because, really, how fucking arrogant would I be to think that?

Don't answer that.

Regardless, there it is.

I'm a much different person than I was eleven months ago, five months ago, last Christmas even. I'm exploring sides of myself that have been locked away, encased in ice (or, if you will, carbonite) for years and years. I'm more present in my friendships, and even building some new ones. I'm living as closely as I can to this year's theme. I'm leaving my comfort zone in a lot of new and exciting ways, and finding out that I like it. And, regardless of success or failure, I'm growing and changing and seeing myself in new and very positive ways.

And then, I fall back. Perhaps not a lot, and certainly not as much as it feels like in my heart center and looks like in my mind's eye. I remember wrongs and half-truths and dishonest dealings and perceived slights on both sides. My heart yearns for the familiar unhappiness that I tricked myself into believing was better than being alone. My arms tingle and bristle. I want to run away, and bite and scratch and punch and kick, and scream my pain to the clouds, all at once.

And then, it passes. Either with the help of a dear, dear friend, or all on its own like air leaving a balloon through a pin-prick. The feeling passes, and I look around, and see that there's no wreckage, and I'm fine. Better than fine.

And the feelings? They're still there, really. They don't go far, but they get quieter and quieter. They seem to spend their power in the imagined outbursts, in the real conversations with friends and therapist, and get smaller and less powerful.

So, yes, I've been reminded that my ex has moved on and is seemingly not looking back.

And it stings.

But, I guess in a way, I'm moving on, too.

And that's what matters to me.

Musical Interlude

2010-02-06T21:12:00.000-08:00

And if I shed a tear, I won't cage it.
I won't fear love.
And if I feel a rage I won't deny it.
I won't fear love.

Three Rune Spread

2010-02-02T08:30:00.000-08:00

Overview: Nauthiz [Constraint, Necessity, Pain]

The necessity of learning to deal with severe constraint is the lesson of Nauthiz. This Rune represents the obstacles we create for ourselves as well as those we encounter in the world around us. Both can be equally difficult to handle.

The role of Nauthiz is to identify our shadow, our dark or repressed side, places where growth has been stunted, resulting in weaknesses that are often projected onto others. Don't take this world personally, this Rune is saying: Work with the shadow, examine what it is in your nature that attracts hardship or misfortune to your life. When at last you can look upon the Rune of Constraint with a smile, you will recognize the troubles, denials and setbacks of life as your teachers, guides and allies.

The need for restraint is unquestionable here. Drawing this Rune indicates that there may well be holdups and reasons to reconsider your plans carefully. Clearly, there is work to be done on yourself. So take it on with good humor and show perseverance.

This is the time to pay off old debts, to restore, if not harmony, at least balance. So mend, restore, redress: When fisherman can't go to sea they repair nets. Let the constraints of the time serve you in righting your relationship to your Self. Be mindful that rectification must come before progress. And as always, consider the uses of adversity.

Challenge: Thurisaz [Gateway, Place of Non-Action, The God Thor]

With a gateway for its symbol, this Rune indicates that there is work to be done both inside and outside yourself. Thurisaz represent the frontier between Heaven and the mundane. Arriving here is a recognition of your readiness to contact the numinous, the Divine, to illuminate your experience so that its meaning shines through its form.

Thurisaz is a Rune of non-action. Thus, the gateway is not to be approached and passed through without contemplation. Here you are being confronted with a clear reflection of what is hidden in yourself, what must be exposed and examined before right action can be undertaken. This Rune strengthens your ability to wait. Now is not the time to make decisions. Deep transformational forces are at work in this next-to-last of the Cycle Runes.

Visualize yourself standing before a gateway on a hilltop. Your entire life lies out behind you and below. Before you step through the gateway, pause and review the past: the learning and the joys, the victories and the sorrows—everything it took to bring you here. Observe it all, bless it all, release it all. For it is in letting go of the past that you reclaim your power.

Step through the gateway now.

Action: Inguz [Fertility; New Beginnings; Ing, the Hero God]

This Rune is akin to the moon, the intuitive part of our nature, with its urge toward harmonizing and adjusting in the sphere of personal relationships. Inguz embodies the need to share, the yearning to be desired, a search after similarities.

The completion of beginnings is what Inguz requires. Drawing this Rune may mark a time of joyful deliverance, of new life, a new path. A Rune of great power, receiving it means that you now have the strength to achieve completion, resolution, from which comes a new beginning. Above all, completion is crucial here. It may be timely that you complete some project now; if so, make that your first priority. Perhaps a difficult state of mind can be clarified or resolved. The appearance of this Rune indicates that you must fertilize the ground of your own deliverance.

All things change and we cannot live permanently amid obstructions. Inguz signals your emergence from a closed, chrysalis state. As you resolve and clear away the old, you will experience a release from tension and uncertainly.

You may be required to free yourself from a rut, habit or relationship; from some deep cultural or behavioral pattern, some activity that was quite proper to the self you are leaving behind. The time of birth is always a critical one. Movement can involve danger, and yet movement that is timely leads out of danger. The time has come to enter the delivery room.

Another of the Cycle Runes, Inguz counsels preparation. Being centered and grounded, freeing yourself from all unwanted influences and seeing the humor, you are indeed prepared to open to the Will of Heaven and await your deliverance with calm certainty.

Rune Descriptions: The Book of Runes, Ralph H. Blum
Rune Images: Rune Secrets

Mini-Post: The Beard

2010-02-01T14:16:00.001-08:00

It's been a month.

And now, it can be revealed.

Yep, that's me and my beard.

Discuss.

Insert Literary "Lord of the Flies" Reference Here. Yeah, We Get It. You Read It Once. In High School. For An Assignment. We're All Impressed.

2010-01-28T13:29:00.000-08:00

BANGBANGBANGBANG

What the hell? "Just a moment, please." I put my pants back on (a travesty, really) and go to my front door. I open it to reveal the tenant living in the basement unit, her face lined with worry, her arms crossed over her chest in concern.

Dude, what are we going to do about the fly infesttion?

Infestation? Is that the right word, exactly? "I got your note yesterday. I told the owners about it, and they'll let me know how to proceed."

Right, because it's pretty bad. See? She points down the hall towards the center of the building. I turn and see three dead flies on the ground. Shit. And they're pretty big, too. Granted, not chihuahua-sized, but still, certainly big enough to freak out someone who hates bugs.

The tenant shudders. I hate bugs. Awesome.

"Well, let's go take a look downstairs." Translation: let's see how bad this really is.

I head to the basement, nervous tenant in tow. More dead flies on the stairs. Not good. Not good at all. I turn the corner at the bottom of the stairs and head back toward her unit. More dead flies, and a few live ones. This is getting worse by the minute, honestly. Yes, they're "just" flies, but why so many? "Are there any in your apartment?"

Oh no, thank God! I don't turn around to look, but I imagine her crossing herself. I came home last night and saw them all, and then just went to town with a can of Raid. Which would explain all the dead ones everywhere. Gotcha.

My brain revs up. ##Okay. Lots of flies. Not in her apartment. Probably from the maintenance area, then. Short term fix: fly tape. Check. Tenant did me a favor with her Raid, um, raiding, so that's probably most of them. Worst case scenario: dead mouse or some other animal in the building somewhere. Find it and the problem will be mostly solved. First, treat the symptoms until you get a handle on the cause.##

I turn around and face my basement tenant, who is, bless her heart, cowering in a far corner away from the flies. "Okay, I'll take care of this. You're sure there aren't any in your apartment?" She nods. "Good. Don't worry; we'll get this cleaned up."

Thank you thank you thank you! She runs back to her unit, flinching away from flies as they careen past her. I think she squeaks at least once before racing into her apartment and locking her door behind her.

I sigh. It never ends.

More Self-Reflection, Now With Less Whining.

2010-01-27T10:00:00.000-08:00

I just shared an elevator with several professional folks that also work in my building. They were making work small talk, as professional people sometimes do when confined in a smallish space by happenstance.

Uh oh, here comes trouble! [laughter all around] Double trouble! [more laughter]

You know, I didn't need you to tell me yesterday to have a terrible, no-good day yesterday; that worked out just fine all on it's own. [more chuckles/laughter] Here's our floor. Sorry! This last was directed to me for some reason. Whatever; just leave me alone so I can drink my damn coffee. Thank you! Again, to me. Why? Just get out of the elevator. "Idiot." The doors closed...

And then I remembered that I just used my outside voice.

So, it would appear that I'm not as far along on my mental health journey as I would like to be.

Yes, I understand that it's a process, and it takes time for new neural pathways to be written, and stuff and things. (Did I mention that I'm taking St. John's Wort now in a effort to help this process along? Maybe I should mention that.) Still, the angry, hateful thoughts continue to bubble up and over.

I imagine, or at least hope, that I'm not alone in having these thoughts. Does the fact that I recognize them for what they are, and talk about them, and sometimes write about them, indicate some sort of progress? I hope so, because, while I don't WRITE about them all the time, I sure do feel like I TALK about them a lot.

[Aside: If you're one of these people with whom I've talked about my feelings and thoughts and how I feel like I'm not making progress and stuff and things? Thanks for listening.]

My thoughts still seem to revolve around a few things: my ex and the way we left things, and where I see myself in my life's journey in relation to how I see other people journeying through their own lives. I can deal with the latter a little better than the former. Or at least, am starting to. I'm making progress in my own life, and doing things that make me happy, and while I might not succeed every time (or even most of the time), I enrichen my experience simply by making the attempt. Or to put it more eloquently: "Failure teaches success."

The thoughts around my ex... well... *sigh*

I think I'll save that for another post, if at all. Just know that I'd really like to get her out of my mind, but my mind seems to have other plans.

Is progress being made? Maybe. It's hard for me to say. Others claim it is so, and I choose to believe them. When I stop judging myself, I realize that I am doing much better than I was at the end of the year. Which is something not to be scoffed at.

Onward.

Two Quick Things

2010-01-22T11:12:00.000-08:00

Thing, The First: Today begins the local holiday known (to those knowledgeable about such things) as Tracymas. It is a magical time, culminating on January 23rd, when doves are released into the sky and beautiful virgins are sacrificed as a grand birthday celebration begins, honoring the great and wondrous Tracy. She has deigned to honor me with the her presence on the day of her birth, and I am most humbled by her gracious attentions. Together we will be partaking in a tradition Indian lunch together, which I hear is one of the traditional celebratory meals of her people, whereupon I will shower her with gifts and promises of more gifts (stupid UPS Ground). It will be a time with remembering, a time that I will cherish always, and a time that I will most certainly tell any grandchildren (though perhaps not my own).

Happy Birthday, Kaply.

Thing, The Second: I recently received a email that warmed the cockles of my black, black heart. I reprint it here in it's entirety. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent:

From: [redacted]
Date: Thu, Jan 21, 2010 at 3:04 PM
Subject: HeLLoo tO U
To: "Mighty Hunter"

DeaR Mightee HuntEr,

BoneS Gud anD me LikEE. [redacted] SezZ Thank U TOo, BUtt I PlaN to SteEEl heer DraGUNS. ShHHHH.

[redacted]

P.ss U Kno teLL [redacted] I uSed hiz LapTop For PLeaase.

(STiill IZ [redacted])

It's good to know that bones and dragons still appeal to some do... I mean, people. Or something.

Hoping you have a fantastic weekend.

My Acting Career Can Only Go Up From Here, Honestly.

2010-01-21T11:00:00.000-08:00

Improv class sounds hilarious and hysterical. I love the random of it all. You'll have to share your stories with me sometimes. Like now. :)

Very well, Sal. Very well.

The three of us are called up on stage. It's our turn to perform at the showcase that celebrates the end of our improv class and shows off what we've learned about scene building and stuff and things. The audience is enthusiastic and waiting to be entertained. So far, we have not disappointed them.

Our instructor, a fabulously funny and entertaining man himself, explains our next game. These highly-trained actors Ah, flattery will be performing a scene, based on a suggestion that they get from you. HOWEVER, he pauses here for dramatic effect at random during the scene I will shout, "Freeze!" The actors will stop the scene, in whatever position they're in. Whereupon I will ask each actor what they plan to do going forward in the scene. You! He indicates the audience with a grand flourish will decide which idea is the best by your applause. The idea with the most applause is the idea that will be used to continue the scene. Got it? The audience, drawn in, indicates they do with excited and enthusiastic applause.

Excellent. But, first your suggestion. Mighty Hunter? Oh right, I'm getting the suggestion. I step forward. "Okay, for this scene, give me something that you would eat for breakfast."

The audience explodes with words: Cereal! Eggs! Chicken-Fried Steak! Pants! Hashbrowns!

Pants? "I heard pants. Thank you, pants." I step back, grinning like a loon. The instructor tosses a piece of candy to the person with the winning suggestion, adding: "I want to eat where you do." Shit, me, too.

And so, the scene begins. My two scene partners exit the stage, leaving me alone with my imagination and house full of people anticipating my next move. So... I mime putting on pants.

Yeah, what would you do?

Both of my scene partners enter at the same time. What are you doing? exclaims one, a moderately-talented Asian woman with a thick accent (we'll call her Yazuki). I sigh inwardly, but soldier on. "Putting on my sixth pair of pants." I can't believe you still need help putting on pants at your age! shouts the other, a hysterical character actor with amazing ability (we'll call him Jack). Oh thank god, what a great offer. "But, dad," I shout back (great, now I'm shouting, too), "I hate wearing pants!" I've apparently forgotten that I'm "wearing" six pairs of them at the moment. Keep going, don't look back. "I have to wear pants for school, I have to wear pants for polo practice..." Polo practice? Where is this stuff coming from? You have to wear pants for your WHOLE LIFE!

Freeze! The instructor indicates each of us in turn. My suggestion for the scene is pedestrian and forgettable, and receives polite applause. Yazuki's suggestion is only slightly better. But Jack... I show him how a real man puts on pants! The audience, perhaps unsurprisingly, reacts with hoots and hollers.

We continue. Jack grabs me around the waist and attempts to mime putting pants on me. Unintentional physical comedy ensues, as I resist and, in so doing, slide down the stage floor. We struggle this way for a few "humorous" moments before I manage to get away. Tumbling across the floor, I hear the instructor shout Freeze! "Oh dear sweet god," I cry out from my contorted backbend on stage. Improvisers can feel free to put themselves in a more comfortable position, if they like. "Thank you," I breathe, to a few chuckles.

The instructor asks for our suggestions to continue the scene. Yazuki and Jack's suggestions get enthusiastic support. But then comes my response: "I turn into the Hulk, Bruce Banner-like, and deal with my parents." The audience fairly explodes with assent. Dang, they're looking for blood, it seems. AND I WILL GIVE IT TO THEM.

The scene continues. I roar with mock rage, standing and projecting an aura of "menace." I produce an imaginary sword from... well, honestly, from thin air. (Something to work on.) "This is for making me go to polo practice," I shout (so much shouting!), attacking Jack with my "sword." He crumples to the ground, whimpering. "And this is for making me go to football practice," I shout again, attacking Jack a second time. He whimpers again. Yazuki stands, and makes her way towards the fallen Jack. "And this is for letting him," I shout a third time, attacking her this time with my "sword." She sits down heavily on stage, glassy-eyed.

The audience gasps audibly. Too far?

Freeze! The instructor comes to our collective rescue. We produce our suggestions in quick order: Jack's is muffled and not heard (or remembered) so well; my suggestion to "fall upon my sword" is greeted well enough; Yazuki, though...

I kill my son for daring to strike at me and his father.

The audience roars. There you go.

The scene continues. I look horrified. "Mom, I'm sorry, I don't know..." She doesn't let me finish. Turning me toward the audience, she wrests the "sword" from me and runs me through from behind. I collapse to the ground. She runs to Jack and, cradling him in her arms, tells him Don't worry, honey, we can always get another son.

And scene!

Thunderous applause. Exeunt. Flourish.

I'd Actually Like To Know How Yogis Can Tell If You're Stretching Your Inner Ear Correctly. Or Even At All.

2010-01-15T08:53:00.000-08:00

What you're feeling right now is the joy of yoga.

I wince in pain, swear, roll my eyes, bite my bottom lip. Clearly, "joy" means something different to my yoga instructor then the rest of the world.

Breathe.

I breathe, my fingers jammed between the toes of my left foot almost down to the second knuckle. I rotate my foot; it responds by screaming like a toddler that's been denied a favorite toy in a toy store after a long day of shopping without a nap.

I'm performing this self-inflicted torture because I can't point my toes. Even if I hadn't said as much to the instructor, she would have noticed anyway, as I'm the only one not sitting on my knees with toes pointed in the six-person class.

Which, actually, speaks to how great this yoga class is so far. It's small, so I feel like I'm getting a great deal of individual attention. The instructor has absolutely no qualms about gently correcting, either verbal or physically, any student in the class whose forms seem off. (I feel like I'm being corrected more than most, but I'm perfectly okay with that; I'm brand new, after all, and welcome the extra attention.) We do poses more than once, and practice moderately advanced forms with partners so that we can get individual correction from our peers. Advanced and novice students (like myself) mingle together in the class, but it doesn't feel like a competition; everyone jokes with one another, and gets down to business when it's time.

Still, my fucking feet would love to be left alone for awhile. I stop stretching out my left foot and switch to the right. This one seems much easier for some reason.

Now, every time we do a pose that requires pointed feet, Mighty Hunter, I want you to stop and do this stretch instead. Okay?

I nod. I don't tell her that I think I'll be doing this stretch the entire class. Maybe I should take some time to do this stretch outside of class. It can only help.

So what did you think of class today, Mighty Hunter?

"Well, I'm certainly starting to feel muscles that I never knew existed." It's the truth, but a more gentle answer than the one I would have given the yogi while my feet were screaming at me.

Those within earshot chuckle, and the instructor smiles genuinely. That's good! By the way, she continues as we exit, You probably won't stop feeling new muscles for about, she pauses while she thinks, about two years maybe.

Awesome. "And now, move into your inner-ear stretch," I quip.

That really exists.

Seriously? Damn. At this rate I'll never get to this point:

[Video courtesy of Sal of You. Me. No Adult Supervision.]

I've Lit The Proverbial Fire in my Belly. Or Maybe That's Just Heartburn.

2010-01-14T13:45:00.000-08:00

So, before you read this, perhaps go by JurgenNation.com and read 7 Habits of Highly Ineffective, Unhappy People. Because, honestly? This entry will make a shitload more sense if you do that first.

I'll wait.

[Muzak plays.]

So, how many of you can truly identify with every single one of those habits?

It fucking sucks, but I can.

Do I now? That's a different question, honestly, the answer to which becomes apparent with observation of my present actions. I'll leave that as an exercise to the reader/beholder, as I can very easily present myself in any way that I see fit in an effort to gather as many people to myself as humanly possible. (Habit #4) (See also here.)

Onward.

As I see it, I have many options open to me. I'm going to focus on the two easy ones that also seem to be diametrically opposed to one another:

Admit Defeat and Continue On As I Have Been.

Because, hell, it's what I know. (Habit #3) Everything there is totally correct. Don't bother to change it. Because, duh, I can't. It wouldn't take anyway, right? (Habit #7) I mean, I've never been able to change myself for long before, so why should now/today/tomorrow be any different? (Habit #1)

Yeah, that's pretty fucking awful and I hate it.

Take Inspiration From The Author's Words and Fight Back For My Own Self-Worth.

The harder choice. Taking this path means I have to WORK. Possibly even work HARD. Changing long established patterns takes time and energy. It's no longer worth trying to figure out why something is the way it is; recognizing that something needs to be changed for the better is good enough for now.

In the long run, this choice might prove to be more fulfilling. The rewards seems great: being gentle and compassionate with others and myself, putting the past down in an effort to face my future with clear eyes and open hands, stepping out of the shadow of patterns that no longer work for me, knowing myself well enough to surround myself with healthy and helpful folks how know me for me and not some random projection of myself. The trick, though, is slogging through and making an effort.

The choice, of course, is mine to make; no one can, nor should they, make this choice for me. It would only continue the patterns that I've set down for myself since... well, since when doesn't matter.

Which path will I choose? That, ultimately, remains to be seen.

You're smart folks, though. I'll bet you can put your reading comprehension skills to work and figure it out for yourself.

Plus, Job Interviews Are A Lot Like First Dates. I Need Practice With Both.

2010-01-13T14:50:00.000-08:00

What I feared might happen seems much more likely now: the person that I've been replacing at work will most likely be coming back around the middle of next month.

I've known that this was a temporary assignment from the very beginning, since I've filling in for someone that's on maternity leave. However, I made an excellent impression on quite a few fellow employees, so much so that I began to think that I might actually have a steady job here for a while. Or, at the very least, a longer-than-expected run.

I started making plans. I should have been listening for the devil's laughter.

At any rate, nothing is set in stone, not even the return of the woman on maternity leave. Her return to work is in large part contingent on her ability to find affordable day care in Seattle. Which, is that even possible? Not having a child makes me less than an expert on this subject.

This also assumes that I don't get offered a job here. Granted, it's a safe bet that I won't during our current recession (Are we allowed to call it that yet?), despite the good impression that I made during my time here, but I don't know the future and stranger things have happened. I can't count on this, and as soon as I know what my time-line is, I need to jump on the job boards again. I think this weekend I'll spend some time updating my résumé. Plus, it will keep my mind off of other thoughts that have been trying to sneak in lately.

Huh. I feel a little better already. Fair enough. Can't make change if I'm flat on my back, bemoaning my existence, right?

Right.

Bloody Chins Just Aren't As Sexy As They Used To Be.

2010-01-08T13:39:00.000-08:00

Last week, I took a good, long, hard look in the mirror, and decided that I needed to make a very important change. It was an old habit, and it had become a defining characteristic. No longer. Time to nip that thing in the bud, so to speak.

So I shaved off my goatee. I know, shocking.

However, in an effort to not cut my chin into ribbons every other day when I shave, I've decided to grow out a full beard.

And, naturally, I'll be chronicling my progress right here. This is the kind of breathless excitement that you can expect over the next month or so right here. You're eagerly anticipating photos and such, I know. You will not be disappointed.

Which means, I'll have to get photos of my progress up here, won't I? Damn it.

Stay tuned for exciting photos and expert commentary from myself.

OH! OH! I just thought of this added extra! If you would like to add commentary to forthcoming beard photos, drop me a line directly at yggdrasilsashATSIGNgmailPERIODcom. The fun NEVER ENDS here at Might Hunter in the 21st Century!

Mini-Post:The Proselytizing Bicyclist

2010-01-06T18:50:00.000-08:00

Hello, friend.

I turned ever so slightly to my left, hoping that it wasn't enough to imply acknowledgement of... whichever random... bicyclist? was following me on the sidewalk.

What a friend we have in Jesus.

Okay, so proselytizing bicyclist. Awesome. I'll just turn back in the direction that I'm walking and try to pretend I didn't hear...

Do you acknowledge the love and majesty of our Lord Jesus, friend?

"Yes, I do," I answered quickly. Perhaps brusquely. But not too rudely. Because, in all honestly? I really don't have anything against that Jesus guy. He's a good sort, if those books about him are to be believed, and a lot of people get a lot out of their faith in him. So, yeah, I do.

For me? The jury's been out on that for a while.

Praise Jesus. You have a good evening, friend.

And he pedaled away, adding a slight dose of pleasant surrealism to my otherwise mundane evening.

Thanks, friend.

I Was Really Going To Talk More About Class In General. But Then The Writer In Me Took Over.

2010-01-06T09:30:00.000-08:00

I learned how to fall down last night.

Sensei told us that this was an important skill to learn because we would be falling down a lot in our karate class. And quickly added that we'd be falling down a lot in life as well, so we might as well learn how to fall down "properly" so as not to hurt ourselves.

So we learned how to fall down.

Forward rolls. Left knee down on the mat, right knee knee pointing at the opposite wall. Make a "net" out of both hands. Roll forward, favoring the side with the knee on the mat. Roll across your shoulder and back. Ideally, land on your feet and stand up. Turn around and repeat, switching left and right knees.

I've been falling down a lot recently, in varied and, at times, spectacular ways. The problem isn't the falling down, really. That's necessary, and often times important. The problem isn't even getting back up; that will happen when it's supposed to and when you're ready for it (even if you don't know you're ready for it.) The problem is not knowing how to fall down correctly.

Backward rolls. Squat down, arms protecting your sides and head. Roll onto your back, kicking your feet together and then to one side of your body. Roll across your back and shoulder. Ideally, land on your feet and stand up. Turn around and repeat.

Yes, I'm talking a bit about denial, here. I'm also talking a bit about anger, and a bit about depression, and a bit about other states of mind that prove our mettle as human beings if we handle them in a mindful way. I've felt all of these things. Am still feeling them. Will continue to feel them about all sorts of events and people. Again, that's not the problem. The problem is not dealing with these emotions in a healthy way. That doesn't invalidate or judge those feelings, but also doesn't wallow and inflate them. It's a delicate operation, falling down properly.

Safely getting down. From a standing position, sweep your right leg behind you. Bend your left leg slightly, and allow your weight to carry you to the ground. Land on the leg that's behind you, and balance with your right arm. Stand and repeat, switching left and right legs.

If we don't fall down properly, we hurt ourselves in terrible ways. We shatter and break and take much longer than we should to heal. It still hurts to fall down, even when you know how. But you get back up more quickly, mindfully, ready.

Turn around and repeat.

Odds and Ends, Bits and Bobs

2010-01-04T10:15:00.000-08:00

A few things to know and tell:

New Year's Eve was delightfully entertaining. Big Gay Nuns tend to have that effect on social gatherings, I guess. Also, new friends made the evening fun. 'Nuff said.
I can roast Prime Rib pretty damn well. It took a little (okay, a lot) longer than I anticipated, but I'm happy with the result, and my dinner guest was as well. Yay, I can cook slightly complicated things. Ladies! (Note: I don't cook, nor do I advocate cooking, ladies. Or people in general.)
It took me entirely too long to finally see Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. And I will never see Hugo Weaving the same way again. Incredibly entertaining, and very sweet. Totally surprised. I heartily recommend it.
I've found a book that I really like. Interestingly, it's what I call a "12 and over" reader, but it's incredibly engrossing nonetheless. Here, read this and see what you think.
Another improv show, another try-out. I feel like I'm getting better with characterization, and I hope that it came through during this latest try-out last night. If not, I think I'm going to seriously consider going back to improv classes. Call backs for this particular show on are Wednesday, and the director says he'll let everyone know either way by tomorrow. Here's hoping.

So, that's me. How're you?

Obligatory Year End Post

2009-12-31T11:07:00.000-08:00

So, yeah, 2009.

Let's not do that again. Seriously.

I'm not going to give a recap. Interested parties can page through the archives and see the glory, splendor, heartache, and pain that was the past year. And in great detail, I might add.

And so, like my dad says (and, honestly, others say it, too): Just keep moving forward.

Of course, implicit in that statement is learning from past actions as you keep moving forward, as well as making deliberate choices and accepting the consequences of those made choices.

Which leads me to this coming year's "theme."

(Aside: I'll readily admit to this not being an original idea. Someone I used to know very well made themes instead of resolutions, as I suppose doing this got away from simply encompassing several actions, and affected more of a general mindset. It's an idea that I'm going to try out.)

I've never done New Year's resolutions. I guess I knew myself well enough to know that I lacked the discipline to actually carry out any resolutions that I might make for more than a few weeks.

That no longer seems as true as it once was. I'm exercising on a fairly regular basis. I'm managing a great deal of upkeep on the apartment building that I manage, as well as hold down a second job elsewhere. Living without a car requires more planning that I imagined but I'm making it work.

However, impulse control still seems to be a problem. I'm very distracted by shiny, new things. It's kind of like a drug to me.

So. This year's theme shall be: "Deliberate Action."

I plan to act less on impulse.
I plan to consider more than one option to getting a thing done.
I plan to accept the consequences of my actions with a little more grace and aplomb than I have in the past (which is to say, any grace and aplomb).
I plan to accept the notion of "pleasure deferred." Just because I want a thing right now doesn't necessarily mean that I have to have it, and just because I can't have a thing right now doesn't necessarily mean that I'll never have it.
Finally, a promise is not a throw-away thing. Making a promise is essentially a contract (even an informal one), and should be kept. I plan on keeping promises that I make.

Let's see how this works out, shall we?

Enjoy the end of this year, and the start of the next one.

I Wonder How They Got The Harness On Around My Tux.

2009-12-28T10:51:00.000-08:00

"Good Lord, I'm nervous," I thought to myself, settling down into my assigned seat in the auditorium. It was my first time MC'ing for the local improv theatre troupe (in the newly renovated theater, no less) and I was feeling the pressure. Warming up in the green room was tons of fun (like it usually is), but all that energy was quickly turning to nervous energy. Still, the harness felt tight enough, and I felt like I had everyone's name memorized for their introductions on stage.

The house lights dimmed. The crowd whipped themselves into a "live-studio audience" frenzy which got even louder as I was lifted out of my seat by my harness and rope hanging from the ceiling. Smiling widely and swinging back and forth above the audience, I intoned in my best Radio Voice, "Good Evening! Ladies! And Gentlemen!" More screams of laughter and delight! I'm NAILING this fucker! Fuck, yeah! "I'm Mighty Hunter," I continued into the mic, lapping up the attention, "And I'll bet you're all ready for a GREAT night of comedic theater, am I right?" Shouts of assent and laughter. "Then let's get down to it! Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce tonight's cast!"

I froze. Shit. Who? What are their names? Oh fuck, fuck, fuck! Stall, you'll come up with it eventually. "First to the stage..." Damn it, NOTHING'S COMING! "Is..." Damn it, what's her name? "What's her name?"

Oh crap, did I just say that out loud?

In a flash, the house lights come back on, much brighter than I remember them ever being. Most of the audience is filing out the back of the house, except for a few opportunists who are sprinting up to the front two rows of the theater to grab a great seat. When they sit down, they simply disappear. Soon the theater is completely empty, except for me, hanging from the ceiling by my harness.

I wake up, and sit bolt upright. It's an hour before my alarm clock goes off.

What the hell does THAT dream mean?

Today's Earworms: Holiday Edition

2009-12-24T10:00:00.000-08:00

Stephen Colbert hits the nail on the head:

The Colbert Report

Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c

A Colbert Christmas: Another Christmas Song

www.colbertnation.com

Colbert Report Full Episodes

Political Humor

Economy

The Spinal Tap near-classic (I actually love this version better):

And finally my absolute favorite Christmas song ever:

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

The Guest-Post That Wasn't; or: This Is As Sappy As I'm Allowing Myself To Get

2009-12-21T10:00:00.000-08:00

A very dear friend of mine heads to New England tomorrow for a week (or so) of family, frivolity, and ~~snow blindness~~ ~~snow-induced stir-craziness~~ fun.

It sounds like she's going to have a fantastic time. Despite the, you know, fourteen feet of snow already on the ground in Maine. Of course, I don't know that for certain; I've made a conservative estimate and expect to be corrected once she arrives.

I understand that, while it's possible to simply walk out into the Atlantic Ocean in New England, stand there for about five minutes, and then return to your home with an armful of lobsters, there's a dearth of Mexican and Chinese food restaurants where she's going. I don't care how much you like lobsters, really; if I can't go to a taco truck or get chow fun, I will go to your town/state/country only under duress. I'm hoping she doesn't starve to death.

Can you tell I'm going to miss her?

Have a great time, Kaply.

2009-12-17T13:00:00.000-08:00

I've not been in a good way lately. Like, "contemplating causing myself physical harm" bad. Which is, at the same time, melodramatic and pretty accurate.

Some dear friends have been around to talk me down from my shitstorm of emotions. Some other people have be riling that shitstorm up, though most likely not consciously. At least, I hope not consciously.

At any rate, my rollercoaster of bad and good feelings might not be over yet, but I feel that it's important to note that I'm on it, and trying to keep my hands up while looking for the end of the track.

Yeah, that metaphor didn't work as well as I thought it would. Still. Onward.

Coming soon: an update of actual substance.

Today's Earworm

2009-12-11T10:00:00.000-08:00

New and original content is coming. I promise. Life events will once again inspire me to post on a more consistent basis. They may in fact already be doing that, and just need a little processing time to get everything in order.

But for now, bask in a joy (HA!) that is Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.